


The Vengeful Assassin

by Ninja_Giraffe6676



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 03, Alternate Universe - Mary Morstan Doesn't Exist, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Gore, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninja_Giraffe6676/pseuds/Ninja_Giraffe6676
Summary: Eighteen months has passed since Sherlock faked his death and it is time for him to return to London to solve the most difficult case of his life. If he doesn't succeed, John Watson will be in grave danger. Yet, what will happen when John struggles with conflicting emotions over Sherlock and the consulting detective starts feeling something quite unusual towards his blogger? The pair find it increasingly tough to navigate through a case and understand their developing feelings for each other.





	1. Living in a Nightmare

### Living In A Nightmare (John's Perspective)

_It is cold in Ella Thompson’s office. It is also bright despite the overcast weather and decorated in a supposedly comforting way. It has the air of a therapist’s office, an air of falsified safety. I recline against a large, leather armchair - the same one I last sat in eighteen months ago. That was before I had even met Sherlock. Such a short amount of time and so much has happened. But not anymore. Not now he’s gone. I cannot pretend that it’s not true; I cannot pretend that I do not miss him. Underneath it all I miss him so much._

_If I had left what was well enough alone in the first place, maybe I would not be in this situation. If I had let Sherlock be when I realised we were getting in too deep with Moriarty, perhaps he would still be alive. But he’s dead and now I cannot stop myself from pining after someone who I will never see again. I sigh quietly and watch the raindrops charge into the glass windows. Consequently, they trickle towards the floor in a growing puddle, much like soldiers running across a battlefield knowing they will get shot down. Every time I pick myself up I just fall to the ground. Just like those rain drops. I think I’m going half insane; I’ve started comparing myself to the bloody weather. It’s all completely inane._ _Ella coughed conspicuously, as if to get my attention. I was pulled back to the bland office the way you pull somebody from a dream. I felt disoriented and dazed as though I had forcefully banged my head._  
_“The stuff that you wanted to say, but never said…” she began in a slow, constant tone. I avoided her eye contact and instead looked at the scuffs on my shoes. Sherlock could probably tell exactly where I had been and the manner in which I walked and what the weather was like just from those scuffs. I sniffed a little at the thought, trying to stop myself from laughing like a madman. Ella ignored this and continued. I expect she must be used to deranged people, what with being a therapist._   
_“Say it now,” she commanded gently. Her words stung me like a wound and I shook my head. A hundred things I wish I had said to Sherlock raced through my mind and I didn’t want Ella to know any of them. I should say how I feel. I should’ve told Sherlock exactly how I felt about him. But I didn’t and I don’t think that letting Ella in on my emotions will prove therapeutic at all in this case. Instead, I shake my head again and say “I’m sorry. I can’t”._

The first thing I felt upon waking up was a sheen of sweat sticking to my shocked face. I sat up quickly, rubbing my forehead in the hopes that with enough pressure I could remove all the bad thoughts from my mind. It did not work. I looked around my bedroom, trying to regain order and self-control. That was my main priority. Without order, I am lost in a void of chaos. The only source of light came from my digital clock, which read 03:00 in thick red numbers. The light wasn’t comforting – it cast sly shadows across the walls like wisps of toxic smoke in a fiery blaze. In the same manner as I do most nights, I inhaled deeply, untangled myself from my damp duvet and swung my feet steadily onto the floor. Then, in the same routine, I stood up straight and stretched every vertebra of my tensed spine. I tried to tell myself that Sherlock isn’t really gone, that he’s in 221B right now doing one of his messy experiments on the kitchen worktop. But I couldn’t lie to myself this morning. _He’s dead, for God’s sake!_ I thought to myself angrily. I struggled for a moment, afraid after breaking my blanket of denial. If Sherlock is dead in my dreams, why can’t he be alive in real life?

“He is in a better place” I stated in a loud, stern tone. The words gave me strength, enough so to take a step forward, then another, then another. I hobbled into my kitchen and flicked on the bright light. It glinted off the white tiles and shiny appliances. Everything in my kitchen had its own place and was positioned in systematic lines like soldiers in the military. I removed a glass from its regiment and filled it with cool water which soothed my clammy hands. However, the hand holding the glass was shaking and some water fell to the floor in a tiny torrent, causing me to swear violently. I put my glass down on the worktop and immediately went to dry the mess, before standing up again as steadily as possible with my stiff spine. I took myself and my glass of water to my sagging sofa and collapsed against the warm material tiredly. Then, I picked up the large, leather-bound journal which always lay forlornly on my coffee table and flicked through it. It was my dream journal, as instructed to keep by Ella and it was nearly full. She told me to write my dreams in it, so that I could find out what was hurting me and be rid of it. I think that she had rather hoped to be allowed to read, no to analyse, my dreams. Fat chance. Besides, I already knew what was stopping me from leaving the grieving period. It was the fact that I had lost Sherlock, I watched him fall and hit the ground and I lost my best friend knowing I had failed to tell him so much. But I kept writing my journal anyway, partially to keep Ella happy and partially so that I never forget a single exchange with or about Sherlock. Because that’s what my dreams were, they were all real experiences I had had during my time with Sherlock. They haunted me because each one contained a situation in which I should have done more.

I glanced over my last entry. It was the worst dream I had had in a long time – it was Sherlock’s fall. I read what I had written with a sickening knot in the pit of my stomach: _Sherlock told me to stay right where I was. I didn’t know why. He looked distressed and was clutching his phone to his ear. Of course, I’m not stupid and I figured that he knew he was in danger of hitting the pavement in some manner as soon as I saw him standing on the edge of Bart’s roof. But I couldn’t let myself believe that he would jump off, not Sherlock. As he told me that he made Moriarty and everything to do with his extraordinary mind up, I knew it wasn’t true. I wanted to tell him to stop being an idiot and come down. I wanted to give him a hug. God, every time I heard the quiver in his voice I felt pure unadulterated fear because Sherlock Holmes seldom gets so upset. His coat billowed in the wind like a cloak. I half hoped it would act like a parachute if he jumped - I would believe any childish nonsense just to deny the fact that this could be my last conversation with him. Sherlock reached out towards me, requested that I keep my eyes on him. Any other time I would have gladly stared at him and him only, but I just wanted to run into Barts, climb up onto the roof and pin him to the ground so he couldn’t jump. I didn’t want him to leave me and especially not in this way. But he asked me to stay and I had to listen. He was in an unstable state. Finally, he said goodbye. Those words rang in my ears, rendered me incapable of thinking straight. I yelled no, I called his name but he wouldn’t respond. I had one last chance to say what I always wanted to say. But I didn’t, I missed my one chance. Sherlock threw his phone down and jumped._

 I shivered feverishly. What I had written summed up all my regrets nicely. I was constantly caught up thinking about every time I could have spoken to Sherlock about it. Maybe if he knew the truth he wouldn’t have killed himself. I even resented the poor man for not deducing how I felt about him. Then I wouldn’t have had to say anything. I sighed, pulled out a black pen and began to write tonight’s nightmare in the journal. At the end of my entry, I wrote ‘ _the worst thing is, Sherlock will never know that I love him’_.


	2. It's Not The Fall That Kills You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hi, I hope are enjoying this story so far. In case it wasn't obvious, I will be alternating chapters from John and Sherlock's perspective. I'm going to be uploading a chapter every other day until it is complete! Please take the time to leave kudos or a comment, they really do mean the world and inspire me to keep writing :) ___

### It's Not The Fall That Kills You (Sherlock's Perspective)

Flurries of tiny snowflakes meandered gently towards the icy ground. Some of them stuck in my dark hair, clinging to the curls as if they were people gripping onto the edge of a cliff. I brushed them away – they were putting me off. I was lying on my front on a thick layer of snow. The cold had seeped through my coat and my shirt, causing me to shift uncomfortably every so often. However, on the whole I was immersed in thought and was oblivious to the freezing temperatures. Mountains stretched on as far as I could see in both directions, however their natural beauty was ruined by long, winding ski slopes which snaked down the mountain side. I wasn’t particularly high up – this slope was a novice one at best. The stretch of packed snow was still mildly stunning; it was wrapped around the mountain side and continued for at least one hundred kilometres.  
“Have you ever been to the Alps before, John?” I asked aloud, then smiled a little. “Of course, Mont Blanc is the tallest and without a doubt the most beautiful mountain in the Alps. Someone owes me a favour near there – I stopped the execution of his brother.” I paused momentarily, listening to the cool quietness. Waiting for John to respond.  
“We’re stuck in some commercialised little ski resort in Méribel. Nevertheless, it’s still rather something.” I glanced around after some time had passed in prolonged silence. Then I recalled that John would not be here. I felt a pang of sadness for a moment and it disconcerted me. I didn’t like that he made me feel things. It wasn’t a habit of mine to keep friends. Sure, I feel a little remorseful when I upset Mrs Hudson or Lestrade or Molly. But John is different. He’s my closest friend and I’ve never felt so many emotions towards one person before. I twisted my expression into one of annoyance. I was on a case and I didn’t want to be distracted by John. It’s not like I’m going to see him again so why can I not just forget? His memory is surely irrelevant to my future, so why must I keep dwelling on his absence? Enough. Back to the case at hand.  
“There’s been a murder!” I exclaimed, without addressing anyone in particular. I did not want my mind to wander. 

I was lying on my stomach in order to get closer to the crime scene. There was a long trail of blood and drag marks in the snow. They weren’t ordinary drag marks though. The body was clearly dragged by someone – there were footprints in the snow next to the blood. The peculiar thing was that the body and the person dragging the body had defied gravity and the tracks stopped dead in the middle of a steep section of the slope. The footprints ended too and they went in one direction only. Downwards.  
“Oh, how interesting! A disappearing body! Plus, a disappearing killer – even better!” I continued, placing my magnifying lens against my eye and inspecting a segment of the footprints. They were size 10, so most likely a man’s. He walked with his left foot turned in slightly. The shoes had soles designed to grip icy surfaces; they were an expensive sports brand. I experimented with the force it took to compress the snow into the same level as the indents of the footprint. So, he was (probably) a young man who weighed roughly 68kg. That narrowed down the mystery a bit, but since it’s a ski resort I was positive that many young men would find themselves a suspect. Lucky them. Unless I managed to narrow it down further. 

Next, I investigated the drag marks. Usually I would already know the victim’s identity and I didn’t like working with unknowns on both sides. It was the disappearing body that encouraged me to take the case. Fortunately, I had an idea of the victim. The local police force had already informed me of a seventeen-year-old girl who went missing two nights ago. They were currently testing the bloody snow to find its owner. The blood clung onto the snow, staining it a shocking red. I remained emotionless as I sniffed the tracks and ran my finger through it. I paused momentarily, skimming through my mind palace, before sniffing the blood again. It contained traces of alcohol. The victim was heavily intoxicated at their time of death. That narrows things down again. I inspected the red on my index finger carefully before wiping it off on the snow. It was harder to tell since the blood wasn’t at room temperature, but I could make a close estimate regardless. The blood was first spilled late last night. 

“So, John, where did the body and the murderer go?” I resisted the urge to go off on a tangent and think about John. “They didn’t fly away or vanish into thin air! They must have got to either the top or the bottom of the slope somehow! But the question is, how?”  
I hopped to my feet lithely and skidded down the slope to the point at which the tracks stopped. It was more slippery than I had anticipated and my legs almost slid out from underneath me. I turned my toes towards each other in a successful attempt to steady myself. Then, I sat down next to the tracks, glaring at them. If I stared hard enough, I usually managed to figure it out. I used to stare really hard at John sometimes to figure him out. Or try to. There were still some parts of him that I was unsure of.  
“Shut up!” I yelled angrily. There. I didn’t want John to distract me from my case. Instead I focused my thoughts directly and began to decipher every possiblity from the information I had previously gathered. Most of them were far from plausible. I heavily disliked the sensation of getting stuck on a case, but I had only been on this one for around four minutes so I was stable. 

Another ten minutes passed and I still didn’t have an answer. Sure, we could find the murderer from their shoes and gait and the victim from their blood, but that doesn’t explain where the body is now. Nor does it explain how the body vanished from partway down a steep ski-slope. Those were the solutions I really wanted to know. They were the reason I accepted this damn case in the first place. Part of me was almost certain that had John been with me, I would have solved the case twelve minutes ago. I sighed and took a break from my mind palace. It was at that moment something clicked deep within me and I looked more closely at the drag marks. They were deep and long and at the end, the drag marks illustrated the victim’s body shape perfectly. There were no indentations for breasts, yet the person was clearly dragged on their front. The build of the victim was also distinctively male. I had seen photos of the missing girl, so knew this could not be her drag marks. The victim wasn’t the young girl after all. I shrugged nonchalantly and began to get to my feet. I supposed that those forensic scientists (and I use the term ‘scientists’ loosely) would want to know that they aren’t going to find the blood of the missing person. I stepped carefully across the trail, deciding to go up the slope on the opposite side since it appeared to have a layer of fresh snow rather than packed ice. The answer to the case struck me at the same instant I placed one foot through the fresh snow and my foot slipped on hard ice. I fell into the bloody trail and the fluids seeped into my coat and onto my hands. I didn’t care though, because my hastily generated theory was correct. There were two sets of iced over footprints going back up the mountain side. The fresh snow covering them was a weak decoy put in place to confuse the police force. Little did the criminals know that I, Sherlock Holmes, would take the case. 

“Mr Holmes,” a middle-aged man in a dark uniform called from the slope’s peak. Then “Jesus Christ!” as the officer saw the red snow on me. “You contaminated the crime scene!”  
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. Case solved. The man who was killed didn’t actually die. Someone dragged his bloody body down the ski slope, then they both got up and walked up the other side. They used snow to cover their tracks. Their downfall, since the snow here is packed tight for skiing. I suspect the victim wanted to disappear and so faked his own demise.”  
“But Mr Holmes,” the officer stammered. “I have the blood test results. It matches that of the missing girl.”  
My mind took a second to process that fact, before I smirked arrogantly. “Oh, that’s brilliant! The girl wanted to disappear! She didn’t want to get too dirty though, no! Her friend got dragged down the slope and they used the girl’s blood to fill the tracks. I suspect she met one of the boys on her holiday, thought he was the love of her life and they decided to elope. It happens more often than you’d expect. The plan was almost flawless and, if left to this town’s frankly pathetic police force, the fresh snow would have iced over before the footprints were discovered. Unfortunately for them, I actually deduce things. A skill that others working with crime scenes would do well to learn.”  
I looked the officer up and down pointedly before nodding curtly in his direction.  
“Good day,” I said politely, before walking past him in the direction of the ski-lift. I had rather hoped that the cases would get more difficult. The criminals were all so dull out here, unlike the ones in London. Secretly, I craved another criminal like Moriarty. But perhaps not one who forces me to fake my own death. I also found my crime-solving skills to be almost diminished without John. Despite myself, I truly miss John Watson. My heart feels heavy and my throat goes tight every time I think of him. I would be content if I could see him again. Alas, he believes me to be deceased. Returning to London is more hassle than it’s worth. 

Just as thoughts of London crossed my mind, a familiar shadow fell upon mine. I almost found myself growling as I reluctantly turned around to face the man approaching me from behind. “Hello, brother dear,” Mycroft drawled. I wrinkled my nose up with repugnance.  
“Ah Mycroft, how thoughtful of you to come visit me. Although let me guess, you have something of upmost importance to tell me. Otherwise why would you leave the comfort of your own office? We both know that you much prefer the cushy life - I see you’ve even put on a few pounds,” I smiled briefly, but in no way did I mean well.  
“Sherlock, I am rather surprised that your insults are based on my physical appearance. I have in fact lost several pounds. Besides, I had to travel all the way to Méribel in this ghastly weather because you have not been returning my calls; a fact I thought even you could deduce. All the more reason to believe that I am your intellectual superior.”  
“Hmm, we both know that’s not true,” I muttered quietly, my brow furrowed.  
“For goodness sake Sherlock, I am here to discuss a highly important issue! Can we please put this childish feud behind us, if not just for the next few minutes? I am sure that you will be interested in the matter at stake.”  
“I highly doubt it,” I retaliated.  
“It would be very beneficial for you to return to London. There’s a serial killer on the loose.”  
I snorted in an unflattering manner, “You want me to come to London for a serial killer?” I chuckled, to which Mycroft looked momentarily unsettled. “You do realise, dear brother, that I can take a case about a serial killer anywhere in the world? Furthermore, serial killers are beginning to get boring. They always have a pattern and they always make mistakes.”  
“Oh, I really think you’ll want this case,” Mycroft continued. He reminded me of my stupid year seven science teacher – ‘Oh you must join Science Club Sherlock! Today we’re looking at the element oxygen! The other students would really benefit from your extensive knowledge of chemistry!’ I wasn’t interested in some serial killer, no. Like the element oxygen, I can study them anywhere. 

“Why would I want this case when I’ve turned down so many serial killer cases before? Especially when it’s in London which is, if you recall, the city in which everyone thinks I committed suicide!”  
“We have… acquired… some information about the serial killer himself. The name Moriarty has arisen on several occasions.”  
“I presume by acquired you mean extracted from those involved. The British secret service isn’t particularly kind to its sources. And any criminal can mention Moriarty, he was in the news for months. I really don’t think that his name is of any significance. Moriarty is dead. I distinctly remember him placing a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger not ten centimetres from my own eyes. Now, if you excuse me Mycroft, I’m growing tired of your petty attempts to rake me back into London.”  
Mycroft inhaled slowly, as if preparing his lungs for a huge sigh. But instead, he told me one more piece of crucial information about the case. You would have thought that if he is as intelligent as he futilely believes himself to be, he would have told me this first.  
“Sherlock, we know who the murderer’s next victim is going to be.”  
“Why would I care?” I retorted. “People die every day. Just because I know the name of the person who will die next, doesn’t mean I will risk everything to save them.”  
“In this case, you might want to make an exception,” Mycroft started, his mouth fixed in a grim line. With that sentence and Mycroft’s expression, the realisation of the victim’s identity hit me like a ton of bricks. “Within the next few days, another victim is going to be murdered, and that victim is going to be John Watson.”


	3. Isolated by Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sorry for the delay in updating this story - life has been hectic! To make up for it I'm going to upload several chapters. I hope you enjoy them :)_

### Isolated by Grief (John's Perspective)

A strong December storm pulled at the city, wreaking havoc wherever possible. Heavy bins were knocked viciously to the floor, some chimneys were ripped from their roofs and the great city of London itself fell prey to falling branches and other forms of minor destruction. Even great things can fall weak to lesser forces. I was silhouetted against my bedroom window as early morning light leaked across the floor, as though the sun was a wounded soldier dripping its blood across the world. I hadn’t slept since three, when my dream shook me awake. I was tired and had been watching this little spindly tree across the street for at least an hour. I often observed that tree. It was young, with thin branches and a trunk no wider than myself. Yet even when caught in great gales and storms it never loses a branch. Even stranger was that the huge oak down the road had lost several branches this week from the blasting winds. _Am I the little tree or the oak?_ I questioned myself, huffing slightly. Without Sherlock, I sure felt as though someone was twisting and pulling parts of me off.

I stood alone in my small, plain flat. There were no items of sentimental value to me and everything was so well organised you almost wished for a little mess. It was nothing like 221B. Each room was square and painted in dull colours. All the furniture matched in a somewhat bleak manner. It was like standing in a dreary school hall in a morning assembly – I was surrounded by tired, ordinary-seeming lumps of paraphernalia in matching uniforms. Just looking around me was enough to bring on a pining pang of desire. I wanted Sherlock here to make a mess: to put heads in the fridge and vandalise the walls and burn body parts in my saucepan and forget to put the milk away so it goes sour and I have to buy yet another carton. All the things that used to make me feel so angry, now I just miss them. Sherlock Holmes was infuriating, but it was my privilege to endure him. Now I’m equally infuriated that my privilege has been taken away by some cruel joke. I know Moriarty wasn’t Sherlock’s creation. I knew that man well enough to know that there’s no way his amazing deductions could be a trick. I just wish I knew why Sherlock lied to me about being a fake before jumping. Did he honestly think I’d believe it? 

A wave of queasiness washed over me and I steadied myself on the windowsill. Today was a Saturday and, just like every Saturday, I planned to visit Sherlock. Well, Sherlock’s grave, I amended. I always felt like this before going to see him. Mrs Hudson used to come with me. I haven’t seen her for nearly five months now. I automatically glanced behind me at the Christmas card which stood alone on my bedside unit. It was from Mrs Hudson. I strode across the tiny room and picked up the card with a lingering smile. The picture on the front was a Winter scene with children throwing snowballs and ice skating. I opened the card gently, as if handling a precious artifact. Inside, she had written:  
_‘Dearest John,_  
_Merry Christmas! Remember, you’re always welcome at 221B._  
_Please come and visit me soon, dear._  
_Mrs Hudson x’_  
I placed the card down weakly and held my hand tightly across my forehead. My breathing was raspy and uneven as I struggled to keep my emotions under control. I wouldn’t cry. But god, did I need to. 

Once I had regained control, I pushed myself to have a shower and get dressed. The sooner I went to see Sherlock, the sooner I could come home. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go to his grave. If that were true, I certainly wouldn’t be doing it every week. The truth is that I didn’t like going to his grave. Only dead people have graves. I don’t want Sherlock to be dead. I want him to be alive. I want my miracle. It seems horribly unfair that some people get all they could ever want whilst my one wish remains ignored. I sighed heavily before gathering up my clothes. They were clean and smart – I wore them every Saturday and kept them immaculate. I lumbered off to my bathroom groggily, feeling like a traitor. 

A constant torrent of hot water cascaded against my body, flowing down my front and curling around my legs in a speeding helter-skelter. I relished the warmth, since my flat was always freezing and standing on the tiles prior to getting into the shower had leeched my body heat from my feet. I ran my soapy hands through my hair and over my body, feeling the rough mismatch of scars across my torso as I went. They’re my battle scars (the physical ones, at least). My worst was where a bullet had embedded itself in my left shoulder. The skin around the large pock mark was red and rough where there was some grafting. As a doctor, I had technically seen worse, but on my own body they felt like the most severe of all. I’m not particularly vain, but I just don’t feel comfortable with my scars. I don’t like anybody to see them, not even my partners. I was always worried that somebody would comment on them or be disgusted. 

When I was in the shower I had time to think in peace. The water drowned out the noises of London, like the constant traffic and the shouting and the passing planes. I had always valued my time in the shower, even in 221B. It used to be the only place where Sherlock left me alone. That and the supermarket. If I knew how soon I would lose Sherlock, I don’t believe I would have enjoyed the brief alone time as much. Now I have too much alone time on my hands. It was in the shower that I finally decided I owed everyone a huge apology. I had pushed all of my friends out after Sherlock… left. It wasn’t their fault. I felt especially bad about Mrs Hudson, stuck alone in her flat all day. It wasn’t fair. The unpleasant thought spurred me to formulate a plan to go visit her over Christmas so that we could both have some company. Maybe we could invite Lestrade and Molly over too for a chat. I could get them all presents like last year. That was our first Christmas without Sherlock. It felt strange to be together in his flat without his unthinkably rude comments and constant remarks. I never thought I’d miss that. But I do. 

It was only the seventh of December, but I needed to buy them all a decent Christmas present before the crowds of shoppers became unbearable. I knew that I couldn’t buy their friendship back, but I’m sure they’d understand, right? I mean they must realise how much grief I’m in? I struggle to pick up the phone and talk to anyone, least of all those who Sherlock had kept company previously. After I’ve been to Sherlock’s grave, I could go down to Oxford Street. There are loads of shops there – I would find something for everyone. I also wanted to get Sherlock a better Christmas present than some kind words and some flowers. He would have never appreciated flowers when he was alive; besides, they die after a few days. No, I could get him something more durable. More fitting. I found myself smiling a little. It felt misplaced on my face. I hadn’t been happy for a long time and the concept of getting everyone a gift and seeing them all again cheered me up slightly. After all, they do deserve it.


	4. The Case of Preempting John's Murder

### The Case of Preempting John's Murder (Sherlock's Perspective)

I reclined against the leather chair one of Mycroft’s _little helpers_ had sat me in, but I did not relax. I never relax fully – I’m always on edge. Waiting for something interesting to happen. She had asked me to hold still whilst she trimmed my slightly overgrown curls. I was jittery because there was a case. But I wasn’t excited because John Watson was going to be murdered if I didn’t solve it. The sensation was alien to me – I’m always exhilarated when there’s a case on my hands. I tapped my foot impatiently and closed my eyes. For some reason, when I closed them I imagined John in front of me. I smiled intuitively, however upon opening my eyes my smile dissipated. John wasn’t there. 

Mycroft had insisted that we return to one of his more ‘secretive’ offices to discuss the issue properly. It was probably just an excuse to get himself out of the cold and to get me ‘presentable’ again. He always was the one to worry about mindless matters such as another’s appearance. Currently, my irritating brother was strutting around the room, looking at me with a smirk.  
“What is so amusing?” I snapped, glaring at Mycroft with hard, unforgiving eyes.  
“Nothing,” he replied, looking maddeningly smug. Unfortunately, I was having trouble deducing exactly what he was thinking.  
“Tell me.”  
“Nothing, Sherlock. I’m just happy you’ve finally learned how to love. If only John felt the same way,” Mycroft met my eyes and stared long and hard. I wasn’t sure if he sounded slightly sympathetic or not.   
“What exactly are you insinuating?” I questioned uneasily, my brow pulled down towards the bridge of my nose in a frown.   
“When was the last time you went into a case with the intention of saving somebody’s life? Why are accepting a case you explicitly said was boring prior to discovering that John Watson is endangered?” 

I thought for a moment, my mind scrabbling for a good comeback and failing. I knew he was implying that I’m romantically attracted to John Watson, but that is not possible. I’m Sherlock Holmes – I don’t love anyone.   
“He’s my friend,” I snarled. “Not that you know what friendship is. You’re lonely. You feel obliged to mock me for having a platonic relationship with someone because you fail to do so. You cannot stand that in one area, I have the upper hand over you.”   
“When will you grow up, Sherlock?” he retorted venomously, before turning his back on me. I wasn’t entirely sure why he always told me to grow up. I’m not childish – I’m far more intellectual than any infant. 

There was an awkward silence for approximately five minutes. All I could hear was the frequent click of metal on metal as the hair stylist continued her work. Personally, I didn’t mind the silence, however socially inept it may be considered. Mycroft’s constant conversation antagonized me. Despite this, I deemed it necessary to break the silence in order to be informed on the case I was to investigate.   
“Tell me everything about the case,” I instructed coolly, sitting up straight and pressing my palms together. 

“Well, there isn’t a case per say…” Mycroft began tentatively, all the while watching me with an expression similar to that of somebody doing long mathematical sums in their head.   
“What do you mean, there’s not a case?” I exploded, rising fluidly from my seat. Had Mycroft lead me here for no reason? Was it just an excuse to get me back to London? My brother always maddened me, but this was by far the worst.   
“I mean, Sherlock, that the police have filed what I believe to be murders as natural deaths. This is a case I want you to look into independently.”   
“Well, what of these supposed murders then?” I questioned hastily, my interest starting to ebb back. A case without Scotland Yard getting in my way with all their regulations and procedures is a welcome one. 

“Do you recall a Thomas Finch?” Mycroft pressed. I shook my head.   
“Why should I?”  
“You solved his young daughter’s murder in 2001. He was in his sixties, and died whilst commuting on the London Underground during a peak time. The post-mortem examination revealed that he died from asphyxia.”   
“That’s the deprivation of oxygen – essentially suffocation. How could he suffocate on a busy Tube?” My mind immediately began listing possibilities.   
“Well, Finch had a heart condition. They believe he died from sudden arrhythmia-“   
“Of course! His heart rate became irregular, limiting the supply of oxygen to his cells. So his body suffocated itself.”   
Mycroft nodded curtly, before continuing. 

“That was in August. Two months later, a Jack Mason died during a large conference in Central London. He’s a- “   
“An idiot, yes I know.” “You do know the man?” Mycroft’s mouth set into a grim line.   
“He’s a forensic scientist, technically. But he has tried to intervene with several previous cases and always dismissed my deductions as ‘a deluded method of solving crimes’.” I smiled briefly. “So, Mason also died a slow, painful death from asphyxia?”   
“That’s what the post-mortem revealed. They didn’t link it to Finch’s death – they both had heart conditions.”   
I thought carefully for a moment. I had four ideas of how these people may have been murdered. It was becoming increasingly improbable that they died naturally. 

“The last death of this nature was slightly different. Sarah Ryans, a perfectly healthy forty-two-year-old died from the same symptoms. She passed away in her home, alone but she had flown into Gatwick Airport earlier that day. She was a respected Politician and it would seem that she’s our killer’s mistake. However, her death was eventually closed as natural causes because a toxicology examination revealed no poisons and there was simply no evidence of foul play.”   
“She should have died at Gatwick Airport,” I stated quietly, tapping my fingers. “They all died in crowded areas. The killer moved with the crowds and was undetectable. The deaths were controlled and happened once the killer was out of the vicinity. It must be poison.”   
“Sherlock, I told you that the toxicology tests came back negative. There were no poisons detected. Not to mention the fact that there were no needle marks or other entry points for poison on any of the victims.”   
“There must be!” I cried, pacing rapidly across the room. It is expensive to run many toxicology tests, so unless there is suspected murder only an initial test is done. I knew of many poisons that would not be revealed from this basic examination. I could tell this was going to be a brilliant case. Undetectable murders are simply fascinating. I wanted to fully examine all the bodies as soon as possible, that is, once I’ve ensured John’s safety. I felt torn between my usual burning desire to finish a case as quickly as possible and the need to save John. 

“How does this involve John?” I questioned urgently in an attempt to escape my distracted thoughts.   
“Well, since these people all link back to either you or me, I had to consider the possibility that someone was working their way towards avenging Moriarty, since he’s your only real enemy. I already knew of several members of Moriarty’s web, so began monitoring them as a precaution. I had hoped that they wouldn’t be so cautious what with you gone. I recorded an online conversation between one of these associates and someone under the name ‘JM’.”   
“You believe that it stands for Jim Moriarty,” I stated monotonously. Personally, I believe that Moriarty is a maggot-eaten corpse six feet under, but there was no sense in disputing my brother when he was telling me the details.   
“I believe it may be connected to James Moriarty, yes,” Mycroft confirmed, as if I was unsure. I scoffed at the notion. “Well, in this conversation, ‘JM’ asked if the three ‘pawns’ had been dealt with. Due to the time and context of the conversation, I am fairly certain that was a reference to Finch, Mason and Ryans. The associate agreed and he was instructed to take care of ‘the queen’ when possible.”   
“That could be anyone! There’s no evidence this mundane metaphor is even linked to me,” I argued defiantly.  
“Patience, Sherlock. I had this associate taken in for questioning.”  
“You mean you had him beaten to a pulp until he begged for mercy and gave you any information he could muster?” I added calmly. Mycroft gave me a disapproving glare.   
“Regardless, you’ll be thrilled to know that he not only told me the ‘queen’ happens to be John Watson but that he swore he still works for Moriarty. It appears that Moriarty himself is baying for revenge and you’re his primary focus. I also assume that you’re the king in their ‘mundane’ metaphor, although I think a queen is more befitting to your personality, don’t you agree?” 

“I couldn’t care less for your pathetic attempts to belittle me by trying to damage the stereotypical ego you so wrongly believe I own,” I said haughtily. “Plus, Moriarty wouldn’t be trying to get his revenge if he’s alive. It’s not his style. This ‘JM’ could be anyone behind a screen - a fake. His associates could all be entirely misled. They’re not all criminal masterminds, you know.”   
“I think it would be wise not to assume anything at this moment. Regardless, it is extremely likely that John Watson is the next person to undergo sudden heart failure if you do not intervene.”  
“Well, we already know where and when the murderer will strike,” I said matter-of-factly.   
“Do we?” Mycroft replied, raising one eyebrow in disbelief.   
“Yes, it’s simple. Surely even you could have worked this one out by now?” I teased gleefully. “Shall I elaborate?”   
“Yes,” Mycroft sighed tiredly.  
“Well, the others died in a crowded place. Where is John going to be today? Anywhere crowded?”  
“Not that I am aware of, Sherlock. He’s currently at the cemetery, paying his respects to your grave.”   
“Well why would he do that? It’s just a stone in the ground.”   
“John thinks that your corpse is underneath it. He visits your grave every Saturday morning,” Mycroft told me apathetically. However, he kept avoiding eye contact, as if he felt uncomfortable or guilty or upset. 

I reeled back a little, feeling strangely nauseous. Why would John spend every Saturday morning going to see me? It’s not like I’m there – it’s unhealthy. Does he really value the brief time in which we accompanied each other that much?   
“Does he go straight home after going to… my grave?” I asked Mycroft slowly. I had to get back to the case at hand. I hated all these distractions.  
“Yes, he does most days.”   
“Good. I’ll just go back to 221B and explain the situation. Give him a bit of a surprise.”   
“Sherlock… John doesn’t live in Baker Street anymore,” Mycroft said carefully, as though I was a bomb that could explode if pushed.   
“What? Why not?” I didn’t understand. How can someone who visits my grave every weekend move out of our flat?   
“I suspect it’s because you’re not there.”   
“Tell me about his wonderful new life then,” I demanded bitterly. I don’t see how he could have left when I was his whole life. 

“Oh, for crying out loud, Sherlock!” Mycroft raised his voice in exasperation as he detected my bitterness. “He had a life before you and he’ll certainly have one afterwards. He lives in Westminster in a small one-bedroom flat. He works at Whittington Hospital. He’s lost many pounds since you left and has infrequent sexual relations with women, none of which last longer than a few weeks-“   
“Boring!” I called. I did not care for John’s string of women. They never lasted and he never really seemed to be in love with them at all. At least, he never wanted more than a beer in front of some awful television show when they left him. I suppose domestic bliss doesn’t fit well with solving crimes – I remember one girlfriend of his that got abducted by the Black Lotus smuggling organisation. Surprisingly, she was one of John’s longest relationships. I clenched my fists angrily. My painfully human mind wouldn’t shut up – I couldn’t think clearly. 

“Just find out where he’s going after the cemetery. If it’s anywhere other than his home, contact me immediately. I must get to John before the killer does, so be efficient.”   
“Where are you going?” Mycroft asked me as I pulled on my long coat and began winding my blue scarf around my slim neck.   
“Good question, brother!” I declared. “I’m going to visit my grave!”  
I could hear him sighing melodramatically as I left.


	5. Sherlock's Letter

### Sherlock's Letter

The damp winter air clung to me persistently, as though I were trapped under layers of fabric that suffocated and restricted my every move. My breaths were short and I felt light-headed. It wasn’t a foreign sensation to me; I used to experience it in the army after an adrenalin-fuelled confrontation. There would be a moment of suspension, where I was neither occupied nor calm and I would remember that people were dying left right and centre. It felt as though someone had put an execution hood over my head and I was being led blindly. In moments like those, I felt truly vulnerable, more so than I did when I was literally in the firing line. But I hadn’t felt like that since Afghanistan, not until now. The reason I felt so apprehensive was because someone had left Sherlock a gift on his grave. But I wasn’t sure it was aimed at him – I think someone left it as a threat. A threat for me. 

At first it wasn’t particularly threatening. It was just four green roses and a note perched on top. But upon reading the note, which I had previously assumed would be some kind words in memory of Sherlock, I felt sick to say the least. It read:   
_‘You should have been more careful when choosing who you associated with. Holmes never has and never will be on the side of the angels. He is a murderer and his accomplices should be treated as such. I anticipate the moment you and Holmes meet again – in Hell.’_   
I was confused as to who would write such a thing, especially when it has been so long since Sherlock’s fall. Most of the threats and hatred came shortly afterwards, when the media were spewing out their ridiculous stories about Sherlock being a fake. But they diminished slowly over time, as the papers found another person’s reputation to ruin and Sherlock Holmes became an unworthy topic of conversation. A man like Sherlock has to have enemies, but to threaten me? How did they know I would visit Sherlock at all? I was anxious to know who had written this note and how they knew I still cared. But underneath the dizziness and the confusion was a much stronger emotion: anger. I was furious that someone could be so disrespectful. Sherlock may have been an arrogant arse, but after all the unsolvable crimes he solved he does not deserve to be spoken poorly of. I know he’s not a fake, or a murderer. I just know it. 

After the waves of shock and suffocating anxiety passed, I was left with raw anger. When I stared at the gaudy green roses lying smugly at the foot of Sherlock’s headstone, I could think of nothing but the person who put them there. I imagined some thug sneaking around loved ones’ graves, scoffing at Sherlock’s headstone, feeling no remorse as they placed the stupid flowers and the offensive note above his resting place. My ears became tinged with red as I clenched my fists, before clutching the roses indignantly and hurling them away from me. I ignored the dull stinging sensation in my right palm where the thorns had scratched me. The pain was barely acknowledged by my brain, which was instead teeming with fury and shame. Shaking profoundly, I placed my hand upon the top of Sherlock’s tombstone and closed my eyes. _We’re alright, Sherlock. I’m alright. I’ll always believe in you. You’re the best man I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting._ I didn’t notice the smear of blood on top of Sherlock’s grave as I walked away and so continued to stay oblivious to the fact that my right palm was torn into ragged shreds.


	6. A Grave Situation

### A Grave Situation (Sherlock's Perspective)

John was upset. I could clearly see that from the way his chest was rising and falling and from his vacant expression. I stood not twenty metres away from him, but the idiot failed to see me. My camouflage wasn’t even particularly elaborate. I was positioned next to a tree on a hill overlooking the top of the cemetery. I was here with the excuse of collecting information to solve John’s murder, but with the intention of fulfilling my disagreeable desire to watch John, to take note of his every movement. I suppose I could possibly get some clues from observing him. I had to focus on the case in order to save his life.  
“John doesn’t even know I’m alive,” I muttered to myself with a frown. It was an odd concept, to physically view someone paying their respects to your own grave. 

Again, I considered approaching John right now and telling him that his life is at risk. Then he would not be disadvantaged by not knowing he could be brutally murdered at any point. But how would I find the murderer? If the murder goes almost entirely to plan, then I will have all the information and clues necessary to solve the case and could still intervene when John’s vital organs begin to shut down. It would be a lot easier to solve a crime I watched happen. After some brief deliberation, I decided to remain still and wait for Mycroft to inform me of when and where John will be at risk. In the meantime, I could observe John quite safely. John Watson was fascinating, really. He was stupid just like everyone else but there’s something about him that made him seem like the subject of an experiment. I was compelled to learn everything about him, understand every gesture and every look he gave me. I put it down to my hunger for knowledge and our close friendship. Never would I have imagined myself to have friends before John, but there’s something different about him. We both love the chase when everybody else hates the rush. 

John was gripping a crumpled piece of paper in his left hand and I wondered what it was. It was impossible to know for sure from this distance. All I could deduce was that someone else had paid their respects to my grave, as I could see some stems protruding from the side of my headstone. However, I couldn’t observe anything other than this apart from John due to the angle from which I was viewing the scene. But why would John look so distressed simply because there are flowers on my grave? I knew John hadn’t put them there, as he knows well that I despise it when people desecrate their recently departed relative’s grave with chemically perfumed flowers and fatuous poems. I suppose John might be irritated, knowing that someone could do something so excruciatingly ordinary in a pathetic attempt to pay their respect. The note must be from someone insufferable; John would not crumple a note if it was from someone whose company he did not despise. If only I could read that note in John’s fist – then the situation would be a lot easier to unfurl. 

My thought processes halted suddenly, in a similar manner to how cogs jerkily stop when something obstructs their teeth. My attention flickered to John, who was getting increasingly enraged. His cheeks started to flush scarlet and the piercing shade then spread to his upper ears.  
“Oh, how interesting!” I marvelled quietly. I did not want to be detected just as something good begun to happen. John was angry. The paper in his fist could be a note insulting me, or someone trying to threaten him. I half hoped that the murderer himself wrote it. It could be a death threat to John, but I doubted he would react in this manner if that were true. Then again, only a boring killer would write death threats to their next victim. That is, unless, they are just egotistical. 

John’s rage soon became apparent in his actions, just like usual. I can’t help but smile inwardly every time he becomes aggressive. However, sometimes his aggression is aimed at me. It is unusual for me to smile, even inwardly, as I don’t usually find anyone pleasing enough to do so. I do try to smile, albeit forced, for certain people. John especially relies on human body language extensively, as whenever I smile I can clearly observe his satisfaction. I do truly believe that he thinks I have a compassionate side. I won’t deny that many of the smiles I gave John were entirely genuine and instinctual. Nevertheless, I felt myself being distracted by the constant thought processes streaming through my mind. “Shut up!” I cursed in a hushed tone, silencing all of the gratuitous speculations. 

John’s rage became apparent to me because he suddenly lunged for whatever was resting on the ground above my “corpse”. They were roses, with petals stained a garish green colour. I scoffed at the irony; whether the roses were meant for me or for John, the green colour is representative of vitality. He glared at them momentarily, as if that would perhaps cause them to wilt. Maybe John was willing the owner of those flowers to appear so he could wrap his strong hands around their throat. Naturally, neither of these events occurred. I smirked. I was getting good at that. Instead, John’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip around the stems of the roses and he hurled them with a frustrated yell. I smiled, which was, upon reflection, perhaps somewhat inappropriate. Maybe I wasn’t so good at this. Not that I particularly cared, especially since there was no way John was ever going to be aware enough to notice me. After his outburst John’s expression softened and he patted my headstone for reasons unbeknown to me. Then he just walked briskly away. I reached for my phone, worried that John may leave and get murdered before I can save him. The notifications bar was infuriatingly blank. Mycroft had not contacted me. I tapped the screen quickly, sending him an urgent text with an underlying, ever present tone of contempt. 

As soon as John was out of the vicinity, I ran towards my grave, vaulting over the cemetery’s low fencing. However, my grave was not my destination. I sprinted past it, instead scooping up the roses strewn several metres away. I pricked my fingers on the thorns but I hardly noticed. I was captivated by this turn of events. The roses had blood on them, distributed widely enough for it to be reasonable to presume that John had cut his whole palm open. I recalled the conversation I had had earlier with Mycroft about the victims having no obvious signs of injection for poison entry. What if the poison was rubbed into cuts on the victim’s body that appeared natural? The murderer places roses on my grave alongside what was probably a rude note, knowing that John would lose his temper and cut himself on the thorns. John is in a crowded place, where a person bumping into somebody is not a cause for suspicion. The murderer has the poison on their person and grazes it past John’s open wound. John is poisoned, yet the autopsy could investigate the cut and it would be noted as natural and therefore irrelevant. Not the brightest of murder plots, but smart enough to fool Scotland Yard. Maybe Mycroft was correct in this instance and the murderer is trying to catch my attention. Perhaps John’s murder is a desperate attempt to get me emotionally invested. They may have even been stupid enough to believe that I would be so emotionally affected that my crime-solving skills would be diminished. This murderer is either extremely intelligent, extremely dangerous, or both. I hoped they were the latter. 

My mobile’s ringtone sounded and I answered it hastily. It was Mycroft.  
“John’s in a taxi now. His destination is Oxford Street,” Mycroft informed me in an indifferent tone.  
“I’m surprised, brother. I expected the British Government to be much faster in its response,” I replied slowly as I rushed towards the nearest main road.  
“Believe it or not, brother,” he retaliated venomously, “I’m not a mind reader. I contacted you as soon as we got the registration of the taxi John called. It only took me thirty seconds upon John’s departure from the cemetery.”  
“Thirty seconds? You’re slipping, Mycroft,” I said smugly, ringing off and climbing into the nearest taxi.  
“Oxford Street, please. Oh, and if you make it quick I’ll tell you how to get out of your crippling gambling debt.”


	7. Oxford Street

### Oxford Street (John's Perspective)

Oxford Street was packed. Hundreds of people bustled around me, as though the stores were cake crumbs and the shoppers were swarming ants. Nobody seemed to care about the wellbeing of others. They just shoved and clamoured to get to their destination first. I felt as though the whole scene really highlighted the selfishness of the human race. As I stood at the bottom of the street, I watched the madness play out in front of me. I wasn’t so sure that I wanted to shop here anymore. But I would, for the sake of the friendships I’ve so stupidly allowed to decay. Despite all of the unpleasantness, I also felt somewhat drawn towards the street’s centre. It was all extremely strange. So I decided which store to enter first, mapped its location in my mind, took a deep breath and found myself being submerged in the crowds. 

Someone collided into my chest. I stumbled backwards, taken aback by the force. They mumbled an apology and continued. It started to rain and as people turned their heads down against the sharp wind they stopped looking where they were going so much. I hated this. It was impossible to plan my route to ensure that I didn’t collide with anyone. One woman bowled right into me, her leather-gloved palms clapping painfully against my collarbone as she tried to catch herself. She looked like a businesswoman, wearing a black suit and high heels. Her hair was done in an elegant up-do. We both apologised profusely as we awkwardly separated. I smiled kindly; she was very beautiful. But she hardly gave me a second glance as she hurried away. The busy lifestyles of those in Oxford Street kept everyone moving, like glitter dancing in a twisting kaleidoscope. 

I felt extremely disorientated. The two clashes had shaken me slightly and I felt unsure of my surroundings. I gritted my teeth determinedly and marched forwards, hoping that I wouldn’t meet with anymore clumsy passers-by. Just as that thought scurried through my mind, something rough brushed against my right palm. I felt a spasm of pain shoot across my hand as it did so and instinctively raised it towards my face. It was bleeding and the skin was ragged and torn. After a brief, shocked glance I turned to face the person who did this, but the crowd all melted into one. Whoever touched me was long gone. It was probably someone’s shopping that had cut my hand. Regardless it was burning and my neck and forehead began to sweat. I wiped my brow, feeling sticky blood cling to my hairline. Then I lowered my hand to the base of my neck as I looked around worriedly. My neck was damp, so I must have sweated a lot. I felt a tingling sensation in my collar and palm. I knew something was very wrong. 

Nausea swept over me in waves, causing me to sway slightly. I needed medical attention. I was in no fit state to diagnose myself. The tingling sensation began to spread down to my chest and up my right arm. My heart appeared to tighten painfully. Was I having a heart attack? My mind was cluttered and jumbled; nothing made sense. Was I dying? I thought I might be. I swore I heard someone yelling out my name. I didn’t recognise the faces around me but none of them were concerned. Nobody stopped, the rush of people kept coming. My throat tightened. My pulse heightened. My breaths got increasingly faster. I felt faint.   
“John!” I heard a voice scream. It sounded like Sherlock. Please, God, let it be Sherlock. I must be dying. Maybe there is an afterlife after all. Maybe that’s why I can hear Sherlock. Maybe we’ll be as close in death as we were in life.  
“John!” Sherlock repeated. I hoped it was Sherlock. My vision had black spots. I couldn’t tell. I stumbled one last time, slumped to my knees and fell on my back on the hard pavement. My chest was tensed and hurting.  
“John!” I heard. My eyelids were too heavy to hold open. I let them close. The pain began to numb my limbs and face. I didn’t have to hurt anymore. There’s no pain where I’m going.


	8. Resuscitation

### Resuscitation

Where was John? Oxford Street was overcrowded. I had no chance of spotting him in these crowds. I felt… concerned. I was concerned that I was too late and concerned that John may be dying right now. But I couldn’t hear any screaming. That usually happens when somebody gets murdered and there are witnesses. It’s difficult to admit when I feel concerned or worried about someone. I spent my whole life pretending to ignore others’ burdens.   
I didn’t care to count the number of times I had to say “excuse me” and push past dawdling shoppers, but it was over a dozen. I still couldn’t see John. I was running out of time. The probability of me physically watching the murder was now extremely slim. If the weapon is poison – and I believe it is – then the murderer could be miles away by now. I would have to rely on John’s appalling memory of details. I shuddered internally at the concept. With his deductions, the case would take months to solve. Maybe the murderer will try again and I can observe the second attempt. That is, if John doesn’t die this time round. I frowned. That wasn’t a possibility I wanted to consider. Another minute went by as I waded through the surging sea of people. A strange sensation pressed through my veins. It was like adrenalin, but it was emotionally tormenting. I was feeling frantic. 

“John!” I yelled. No reply. People shot hard, judgemental stares at me. I ignored them; they didn’t understand the issue.   
“John!” I screamed, beginning to run. He would have replied, had he heard me, right? Therefore I must deduce that he can’t hear me, either due to distance or injury. As I pictured John dying, my legs pumped faster. The multitude of people jumped out of the way, else I shoved them. I didn’t bother telling them the emergency – mass hysteria isn’t good for thinking.   
“John!” I cried out, one last time. But I didn’t need to. Several people were gathered in a tight circle just across the street. I sprinted into the road. A car hit me and I rolled to the floor. The rough tarmac gave my arms abrasions. I clambered back onto my feet and kept running. As I pushed through the throng of onlookers, I nearly stood on John. 

He was splayed on the floor. There were wet patches on his lower trouser leg though, so he fell to his knees before he fell to his back. Therefore he was conscious upon collapse. There was a thin layer of sweat on his face and his skin had the pallor of a corpse. His eyes were open but only by a small slit. His mouth was agape and his whole chest was shaking with the effort of breathing. His palm was cut open, just as I had suspected at the cemetery. I feared that the murderer could have easily administered the poison through his open wound. I knelt down beside my friend. I hadn’t seen him for two years. Now he looked awful and was half-dead. I didn’t know how to save him.   
“What do I do, John?” I asked quietly. “I don’t save lives. That’s your job.”   
“What’s wrong with him?” a young woman asked, holding a phone to her ear.   
“He’s been poisoned. He needs immediate medical attention. He’s struggling to breathe and his pulse is half the speed it is usually.”   
She returned to her phone call. I realised she was phoning an ambulance. 

My mind raced. I shut out the panicked sounds around me. I needed to think. If the poison wasn’t administrated with injection, then it could still be on his skin. If I washed it off, then the dose wouldn’t get any higher, possibly slowing the effects.   
“Everyone shut up!” I demanded, relishing in the brief silence. “I need some water. Now.”   
Somebody offered me a bottle of water. I snatched it and swiftly unscrewed the lid, before pouring it over John’s hand. He writhed slightly, muttering something. This excited me - it meant he was somewhat conscious.   
“John, can you hear me?” I asked. “I’m helping you. Well, trying to. I’m much better at crime solving than first-aid.” John didn’t move, but his eyelids fluttered slightly. The woman who phoned the ambulance tapped me on the shoulder.   
“The paramedics will be here in five minutes.”   
“That’s too long!” I replied, glancing at John. That was when I noticed the blood on his forehead. I growled with frustration, the tenacious sound vibrating through my long neck.   
“John! You idiot! You’ve wiped the poison on your head and your neck!” I used some more water to cleanse the bloodied areas, hoping that it would be enough.   


After washing the poison from John’s skin, I felt confident that his condition would be stable until the ambulance arrived. But I have never been more wrong. His breathing suddenly heightened and his whole body began convulsing. Somebody in the crowd screamed. He looked like a fish out of water slowly suffocating. My long fingers pressed against the inside of his wrist. His pulse was too low. Several violent convulsions later and he had stopped breathing altogether.   
“John’s not breathing!” I declared to the public – a silent plea for guidance.   
“Resuscitate him!” Someone retaliated. But I didn’t know how to do that.   
“Is anyone here first-aid certified?” I questioned loudly. No reply. I knew that at least two people surrounding me were. But who would want to touch a man covered in deadly poison? Humans are selfish when it comes to matters of life and death.   
“How do I resuscitate him?” I asked desperately. I didn’t have time for their dithering. Either help or leave - dying isn’t a spectator sport unless you’re solving the crime. One person said to push his chest. Another voice suggested breathing into his mouth. Since he still had a pulse, I chose the second one. 

My nimble hands roughly pulled his coat open and ripped the top of his shirt apart; I knew enough about suffocation to know that any additional pressure to his airways could be fatal. I tilted John’s heavy head backwards, used the last of the water to wash his lips (because who knows where that man had spread the poison?) and shoved my mouth against his. I had never been this close to someone before. In any other situation this would be beyond me, but for John’s sake I had to push past the uncomfortable sensation of my skin against someone else’s and just breathe. I pinched his nose tightly and forced lungful after lungful of air into his, watching his chest rise with each laboured exhalation. It was satisfying to watch John’s chest move again. 

John’s lips were still warm. The pressure between our swollen mouths was almost painful. Even though he was dying and poisoned and this was resuscitation, it felt exhilarating. Past the sweat, John tasted somewhat comforting. For the first time in my life, I had to stop my instincts; else I’d be moving my lips against John’s unresponsive ones in a twisted form of kiss. My heart thudded roughly and I felt dizzy. I didn’t understand the powerful connection I felt between John and myself. I suddenly suffered from all the years of never touching someone other than a quick pat or in combat. The sensation was too much, it hindered my thoughts. I could not recall the past or future – only the present. Time seemed to slow down. That was when I reeled away, wiping the saliva from my lips with disgust. How could I have let myself feel so weak? The dizziness remained and I wavered uneasily.   
“Where is that ambulance?” I asked in a breathless pant, looking past the black spots in my vision. A woman screamed as I fainted.


	9. Saving John Watson

### Saving John Watson

My eyes felt painfully strained as I stared into the eyepiece of a microscope in the hospital’s laboratory. I was pushing myself, searching desperately for evidence. I was examining John’s blood and testing it for poisons. After a short argument with the nurse who had drawn the blood at the hospital, I had simply snatched the sample from her and stormed off to the lab. Hospitals can take hours, even days to find poison in someone’s bloodstream, especially if the poison is an obscure one. I only had approximately ten minutes before the police arrived to remove me from the lab and I needed to find the poison before then if John is to have any chance at all of survival. Fortunately, my extensive knowledge of poisons meant that I could narrow down the potentials based upon the symptoms. Asphyxiation was a reasonably common effect of poisoning. But I had a hunch. 

My fingers tapped impatiently against the pristine workbench. I had to test the blood with a chemical compound to identify the poison. I would have to wait, since the reaction requires about five minutes. I observed my surroundings in a bored manner. Each substance in the lab had a designated place; everything was organised and unbearably neat. I had half a mind to rearrange things slightly. Then I thought about having previously seen John in a sterile, whitewashed intensive care ward with a tangle of tubes hanging from a drip on his right. I recalled how they went into his nose and his hand. He was on a ventilator; he’ll die unless I find an antidote soon. But to have an antidote, I must know the poison. I found it unpleasant to see John in that state. His expression looked uncharacteristically blank – so much so I almost wanted him to be frowning at me as he so often does. Just so that he could resemble at least part of himself again. 

My mind ran over the past events of this morning as one scans their notes. I began at the moment my eyelids flickered open upon waking on the pavement. I had inhaled sharply, feeling the rush of oxygen nurture my deprived body. The force at which I had been breathing into John’s mouth had caused me to faint. Although I had been unconscious for no more than a minute, the ambulance had arrived and paramedics were loading John into the back of it. I had leapt to my feet, ignoring the sudden rush of hot blood to my head, and stumbled through the crowd towards him. My temples felt as though they were squeezing and pounding against my skull violently. Then, I bounded into the ambulance and fell into the small fold-down seat by John’s head. I tried to shut out the complaints of the paramedics as they rambled on about how I couldn’t just climb in here and am I related to the patient and what’s my name. When I had snapped back that my name is Sherlock Holmes they just started tittering on about how Sherlock Holmes is dead and although my resemblance of him is uncanny I must be lying. I did not appease them with a fake name, I just insisted I was Sherlock Holmes and that there are more important things to worry about (John) than my name. 

After my insufferable journey in the ambulance, I had followed John through the hospital despite protesting medical staff until they gave up and let me stay. Whilst doctors were fiddling with John’s tubes, I had attempted to take his blood with a syringe I found on the side, but a nurse had wrenched it from my hand with fear in her eyes. They all thought I was some crazed Sherlock lookalike who was following John Watson for the fun of it. That was when I realised that if I had any chance of getting John’s blood sample, I would have to stand back; otherwise the staff would call the police immediately. So I had waited until a nurse took his blood. As she walked past me with the sample in hand, I took it from her in one lithe sweep and ran off to find the hospital’s lab. That would have been the last straw - they would have phoned the police by now. But I had to at least tell John’s doctor the poison before then, so that they could save John. I had to save John just once, to repay all the times he has saved me. 

I glanced down just as two policemen burst into the lab. I kept my head down and glared at the blood sample. The reaction was just finishing.  
“Ah, just as I had suspected!” I exclaimed, grinning. “The poison used is aconite!” I turned to the policemen, to beg them to tell the doctor the poison. But upon turning around, I came face to face with Detective Inspector Lestrade. 

“Oh my God…” he muttered, staring at me in shock. “It is you, you bastard!”  
“Yes, I should probably tell you now that I never died,” I responded curtly. “So, if you’ll excuse me-“  
“Wait a minute, Sherlock! I wanted to respond when the hospital phoned in to have a Sherlock Holmes imitator removed from the premises for interfering with medical procedures, even though this really isn’t our division. I just wanted to show whoever it was a bit of respect for the dead, a bit of respect for you. Now, you may be the real Sherlock Holmes, but you are still not allowed to interfere with medical procedures.”  
“I was testing John Watson’s blood to identify poison. He is dying and I have to save him. Please let me pass.” 

Lestrade paused, as if considering my plea.  
“Look, I can’t ignore protocol for you, Sherlock. I’ll accompany you to John’s ward so you can tell the doctor what antidote to use, then I’ll have to escort you from the premises. I’m sorry.”  
I agreed reluctantly to this alternative and rushed Lestrade and the young policeman who blundered in beside him to the intensive care ward. The doctor we met there grudgingly listened to my discovery and promised he would work on giving John the antidote immediately. He even told me that John would have to stay in for at least two nights to monitor the side effects of the poison and that I could visit John tomorrow as long as I behaved. For this, I was extremely thankful. Lestrade then guided me out of the hospital and asked me to accompany him to Scotland Yard for a ‘catch up’. I declined politely, unable to think of anything more tiresome than a long-winded ‘chat’ with Lestrade. Instead I spent the rest of the day playing my violin in 221B. That is of course, after I scared Mrs Hudson half to death by returning. Unlike John, Mrs Hudson hadn’t tried to remove me from her life, so 221B was almost exactly as I had left it. It didn’t take long to unbox my belongings and relapse into my old routine. 

That night, I did not sleep. Instead I plucked and rubbed the strings of my violin, producing a melancholy sweep of music. I did not write this composition down – it was written for John’s almost-death and it rendered me distastefully emotional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sorry this chapter is a day late - I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know what you think in the comments if you have time, they really help me :) P.S. I'm sending good vibes for those who plan to watch The Final Problem tonight!_


	10. Reunions Rarely Go As Planned

### Reunions Rarely Go As Planned (John's Perspective)

My eyes felt uncomfortably gritty upon opening, as though somebody had stuffed sand under my eyelids. I blinked several times in an attempt to moisten them, to no avail. I felt stiff material underneath me and the surface I was laying on was quite hard. The room around me was painfully bright, so I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing slowly. I had to calm my ragged nerves. I had no recollection of where I was or why. I remembered being in a car then I… My mind struggled to remember. I went to somewhere busy. It was outside, there were buildings. Then I was somehow lying down… Sherlock was there. Sherlock was calling my name – he sounded distressed. I didn’t know why. Then he… He kissed me. There was pain but he was there, his hands were on my chest and his soft hair grazed my forehead and his mouth pushed against mine roughly. I tried to bring my hands to my head, but they felt disconnected from my brain. I managed to sluggishly move them to my forehead and rub it with my calloused fingers. Then I felt them – soft bandages wrapped around my palm. Some more memories rushed to mind.   
Somebody had cut my hand and it was agonising. I started feeling odd and my heart was aching. I think I had a heart attack and I collapsed. That’s why Sherlock shouted my name; he was worried. But why would he kiss me? I never thought he cared about me that way. I never thought he cared about anyone at all in that way. My head hurt immensely.   
“Sh-Sherlock!” I bleated weakly. The movement caused a wave of pain to surge across my chest. Mustering all my energy reserves, I heaved myself into a sitting up position. I was in a small room with yellow walls and a large window. Through the window I could see people bustling backwards and forwards in a corridor. I found myself to be in a bed, but not one I recognised. Then I saw the needles protruding from the back of my hand and the long tubes hanging from drips. I was in a hospital. Of course, if I had collapsed then I must have been unwell. My neck was stiff as I glanced around the room. On the bedside table were my keys, my phone and a scrunched-up piece of paper. A doctor must have emptied my pockets before taking my clothes. I was wearing one of those horrible hospital gowns. With weak hands, I reached for my phone, but accidentally knocked it on the floor. It skidded across the linoleum and I cursed loudly. 

Next, I reached for the piece of paper and pulled it onto my lap, before carefully flattening it out. As I read it, the colour left my face and I felt sick. How could I have forgotten? Sherlock is dead. In which case, my memory of him kissing me must have been some deluded vision. My head shook violently and I began sweating. My best friend is dead. I nearly died back there. The shock ran through me like ice-water. Somebody wanted me dead. I was just about to call for a nurse when a man walked through the door. He was tall and carrying a huge pile of books and papers that obscured his face. His pale hands looked strong, yet elegant and nimble as they supported them. He was wearing black trousers and polished leather shoes. I could see no evidence of a white doctor’s coat; only his purple shirt sleeves were visible. A purple shirt was uncharacteristic of a doctor or nurse, but nobody who could be visiting me is of that height or gait.   
“Are you my doctor? Can you help me, please? I think I may be concussed I need-”   
The man dropped all his things onto the floor, revealing his identity. It was Sherlock Holmes. I gasped and pushed myself against the headboard, trying desperately to get as far away from this apparition as possible. 

“I’m going crazy,” I panted, as my breathing quickened. The apparition stared at me, his mouth slightly open. Sherlock was as beautiful as always, with his dark curly hair and flawless complexion. His eyes were a startling sea of colours and they were locked with mine. I had to applaud my memory in producing such a good hallucination. Suddenly the thing, whatever the hell it was, blinked and rushed towards me. I pushed my back against the wall behind me and whimpered. Then I felt cool fingers pressing against the inside of my wrist and some more against my forehead. Why could I feel him? He pulled the covers up to my chest and pushed his finger to the pulse in my neck before he turned to my drip and began adjusting one of them. I started to feel a bit calmer, was he increasing my morphine intake? How? He’s not real. Is it a Sherlock look-alike, a cruel joke?   
“You’re not real… You died… I- I watched you die!” I cried. What was happening?   
“No,” the man said softly. “I did not die. You saw me fall, no more.”   
“Who are you?” I responded angrily, but the man certainly sounded like Sherlock Holmes.   
“I’m not lying, John. It’s me: Sherlock - I never died. I haven’t been in London for one and a half years. I faked it.”   


I shook my head in disbelief. This isn’t possible.   
“What happened to me?” I asked. Sherlock frowned.   
“Someone attempted to poison you. I knew it was going to happen, so I had hoped to catch the murderer as they attacked you. But Mycroft was too late and you were already half-dead when I got to you- “ I interrupted him by yanking the blankets off of my body angrily.   
“You knew I was going to get killed and yet you let it happen?” I accused, boiling with rage.   
“Well, yes,” he responded. “But you must understand that I had to in order to- “   
“I don’t have to understand anything you say! I thought I was your friend! You led me to believe that you were dead; you let me grieve for months and months! Now you just show up here and for what?” I ranted as I grabbed his arm roughly. I needed to know why he was doing this.   
“I was rather hoping that you would move back in with me, so that we could catch the murderer. You could act as, how do they put it? Live bait.” 

“Live bait?” I fumed, swinging my feet out of the bed and placing them on the floor. Nausea swept through me but I swallowed determinedly, trying to convince my body it had enough strength to stand up.   
“We’ll discuss logistics later, John. For now you must rest,” he explained calmly. He was speaking to me like a small child, not a man whose life was in the balance. Rage blinded me as I suddenly leapt at the arrogant prick standing before me and bowled into his chest. He fell to the floor with a smack and I went with him. I felt the needles tug painfully under my skin and the drip stand clattered to the floor too. My hands wrapped easily around his slim neck and I shook it as violently as a predator shakes its prey. His hands pulled at mine and then at my face, trying to get me to release my grip but I would not. Instead, I straddled his thin waist and pushed harder against his stupid throat whilst he writhed around on the floor making choking noises. My thumbs guided themselves to the top of his neck and pushed upwards of their own volition. I suppose it would have been worrying that I knew exactly how to squeeze the life from another human, had I not been a soldier. Somebody must have seen the commotion through the window, since two people burst into the room and began pulling at my shoulders and waist and hands. They started to prise me off and I felt a pang of guilt, knowing that I shouldn’t have attacked him. But I couldn’t stop, anger had overridden my body and filled me with newfound strength. Sherlock raised his hand to my cheek and rested it on my clammy skin with the gentleness of a lingering breeze even though I was choking him. I’m sure it was accidental, or perhaps a plot to encourage me to stop, but I released my grip as if his skin was as hot like malicious flames. Sherlock coughed and spluttered and wheezed. I felt frozen; I just stared at the raw marks on his long neck. I had done that. 

Even worse was the fact that Sherlock wasn’t at all mad at me. He politely asked me to stop sitting on him in a croaky voice and I scrambled off, embarrassed. The doctor and nurses helped me back into my bed and righted my drip. They took my pulse and my temperature and asked if I had calmed down and if I was in a lot of pain, to both of which I nodded. Finally, they adjusted my morphine levels and asked Sherlock to leave me, as I needed to sleep. I felt awful – I didn’t want to sleep. But I couldn’t fight the drugs and eventually succumbed to them. 

The next time I woke up, the room was dimly lit with an artificial orange glow. It must have been night time. The bed felt warm and my whole body felt revitalised. Although I vividly recalled falling asleep on top of the sheets, there was a duvet tucked neatly up to my shoulders. I wondered if it was Sherlock who put it there, but dismissed the thought immediately. It just wasn’t in his nature. The image of Sherlock tucking anyone into bed was an absurd one at that – it triggered a small smirk to pull at the corner of my mouth.   
“What are you smirking at, John?” a familiar voice questioned. I quickly sat up and realised that Sherlock was sitting in a visitor’s chair in the corner. His long legs and the low chair caused his knees to be level with his abdomen and his narrow elbows were resting on them. His hands were steepled, as though he was mid-prayer and his startling eyes were staring intensely at me. I could feel him trying to deduce me, trying to understand exactly what I was thinking. He frowned, presumably because he could not, and then sat up straight. 

“What were you smirking at?” Sherlock repeated. His expression and tone was full of nonchalance, but I knew it bugged him when he couldn’t instantly deduce my emotions.   
“It doesn’t matter. Look, about earlier…” I tailed off, partially due to feeling promptly inarticulate and partially because I had just noticed the harsh purple and red bruising around his throat. I must have been asleep for a while, for his voice to have returned to normal.   
“You’re wondering how long you’ve been asleep for and you are shocked at the bruises,” Sherlock smiled, pleased that he could observe this one. ”It’s been sixteen hours; therefore just past two in the morning. I have sustained little injury besides the bruising and no it doesn’t hurt.”   
“Of course it bloody hurts,” I snorted with exasperation. “I’m a doctor and I know all about bruises.”   
Sherlock shrugged and smiled at me again. Why wasn’t he angry?   
“I am sorry, Sherlock,” I said - my voice barely a whisper. “You really pissed me off. Sometimes you’re just so-“   
“Insensitive?” he suggested, rising to his feet. “Presumptuous? Impetuous?”   
“Yeah,” I agreed, releasing a small laugh in the same manner one might release a single dove. “All of those.” 

Sherlock strode across the room towards me, and stopped shortly before my bedside. He was looking at the wall above my head intensely. He pressed his palms together again and I realised he must be thinking hard about something.   
“If it’s two in the morning, how come you’re allowed in here? Doesn’t this place have visiting hours?”   
“Oh, I pulled some strings to get the hospital to allow it. Let’s just say Mycroft has his uses. Besides, I’m doing official government business.”   
“Oh?” I questioned. I wasn’t aware that sitting around in a hospital with me was really in the government’s interest. Sherlock motioned to the wall at which he was staring, so I twisted my body around to investigate. He had pinned dozens of photos and documents to the wall and there was a complicated path of black pen lines connecting them. During the time I was asleep, Sherlock had since moved all of his papers onto my bedside table. I recognised my crumpled note on top of the precarious tower of documents and a photo of me was pinned to the wall amongst the sea of paper. I touched my fingers to the investigation curiously. Sherlock was solving my case. He was trying to uncover the identity of the person who attempted to murder me. Maybe he didn’t expect me to be live bait after all.   
“It’s no use, John,” Sherlock stated, clearly irritated and perturbed. “I don’t have any leads. The murderer could be anyone!”   
“Well, someone cut my hand open. Does that help at all? Perhaps you could run some tests on the wound?”   
“No. You cut your hand on rose thorns at the cemetery. However, the murderer could have administered poison through the cut. Once you’re healthy enough to be discharged from this place, a trip to the morgue is in order. I have a theory.” 

“How did you know about the-” I stopped myself, not wanting Sherlock to dismiss my ‘idiotic questions’.   
“The roses? I followed you to the cemetery; I watched it all. Now-”   
“Hang on a moment. You could have stopped me at the cemetery! All of this,” I gestured to the hospital ward, “could have been avoided! When will you learn that in your line of work you deal with lives as much as you deal with bodies, because there’s a damned bit of difference!”   
After a long pause of waiting for the man to enlighten me, I sighed loudly. “I should also say that your bloody theory isn’t obvious to anyone but you, Sherlock.”   
He sighed dramatically before explaining, but I knew he loved to be a smart-arse. “What if the murderer planted minor accidents for their victims? Something guaranteed to cause them a natural injury? They could then get poison into their bloodstreams without any suspicious needle marks. This increases the chances of the death getting marked as natural. Few would bother with a common scratch in a post-mortem.”   
“Brilliant,” I commented before I could stop myself, nothing short of amazed. It would be an ingenious way to poison someone. “What poison was in my bloodstream?”   
“Aconite. It must have been a large, concentrated dose to have had such an instantaneous effect on your body.”   
“Aconite...” I repeated. “It can’t be.”   
“What makes you say that?” Sherlock challenged quickly.   
“I felt someone brush against my cut moments before I collapsed. Even a concentrated dose would not have been able to travel from my palm to my heart in that amount of time.” 

“Hm. That is interesting. But did you or did you not wipe your hand on your neck and head?”   
“Well… Yes. Now I think of it I did because I was sweating.”   
“You don’t happen to recall exactly how much time passed between you touching your neck and your time of collapse, do you?” Sherlock tried, but he knew I would never have counted such a thing in my situation.   
“Of course I bloody didn’t!”   
“It was worth a try,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, before retreating into silence. I didn’t stop myself from watching every flutter of his closed eyelids; I wouldn’t deny myself the fascinating way his long eyelashes shifted like a gentle breeze against his pale skin whilst his fingers danced erratically through the air. Deep within my core I sensed that it was an invasion of privacy to study Sherlock’s body when he enters his mind palace. Nevertheless, I selfishly indulged myself and stared anyway. 

The room was silent for what could have been a few minutes or a few hours; I was so mesmerised by Sherlock that I hardly noticed. But when Sherlock finally opened his eyes and drew in a sharp breath, it made my body jolt with shock. A smile played at his full lips and he rubbed his hands together excitedly.   
“The killer could have put aconite anywhere on your skin and it would have seeped straight through into your bloodstream at the point of contact. So, you wiped aconite on your neck and it had a very short journey to your heart. But not that fast, no – you said you collapsed moments after and you wiped your neck because it was sweating. Sweating or simply moist?” Sherlock gabbled. He was staring at me with the severity and urgency of a child trying to convince their parent there’s a monster under the bed.   
“What makes you think it wasn’t just sweat on my neck?” I asked tentatively, anticipating his sharp response.   
“Isn’t it obvious? Come on John, you’re a doctor! Sweating isn’t a common side effect of aconite poisoning.”   
“No, but it is a side effect of fear.”   
“Were you afraid at that exact moment in time?”   
I sighed, beaten. “A little, the fear mostly came when I started to react to the poison.”   
Sherlock glanced at me triumphantly, however for once he did not make some smart response. He didn’t even look arrogant for long – instead his expression dropped momentarily and he fell heavily into a sitting position on the edge of my bed. 

“We’re at an advantage John: you have seen the murderer with your own eyes! If you just maximise your visual memory- “   
“No, no,” I interrupted in protest. Sherlock stared at me with confusion and slight offence. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t remember every detail of every person who happened to touch me on a crowded street.”   
Sherlock grabbed my forehead energetically, ignoring my plea. His palms pressed with slight pressure against my temples and he commanded me to close my eyes. I obliged, knowing that he would be too stubborn to give in. I genuinely could not remember and his firm touch was more of a hindrance than it was helpful. Currently, all I could concentrate on was the feel of his warm breath gently tickling my nose. His words fluttered across my skin like feathers, causing every hair on my body to stand on end and a shiver to run down my spine. We were so close it would only take a small movement on my part and I could rest my head against his. My heart raced and I shuddered again. I could never do that to Sherlock. It was flattering enough that he actually seeks out my company. 

After a tense moment of silence, Sherlock spoke in an urgent tone. “John, I need you to think. Think carefully about everyone who touched you since you exited the taxi. Now try to picture them.”   
He rubbed his fingers against my skull in tight circles as though he was willing the memories to seep through my flesh into his fingertips. In truth, I did not remember any distinct details and even if I did I could not trust my concussed recollections. If I so stupidly thought Sherlock had kissed me, then who is to say that any of my memories of the event are credible? But in order to get him to release his grip on me, I would have to humour him.   
“Alright, fine. I collided with someone – I have no idea what they looked like. They didn’t come into contact with my skin, I’m certain. Then a woman banged into me… She had brown hair done in some fancy hairdo on top of her head. I’m not sure whether she touched my skin or not. Then… a man brushed past my hand. I think he was average height – about 5”11. I reckon about late thirties. He was wearing large dark clothes. He might have touched me anywhere, I felt quite distanced by then.”   
“Was he this man?” Sherlock questioned, motioning towards a mug shot of a man on the wall that was obviously taken from a security camera.   
“I don’t know, maybe,” I replied. My hands began to feel clammy and my head hurt. Why might that man want to kill me? I didn’t have enough details. Sherlock needed to explain everything to me. But he was too busy frowning. He wasn’t satisfied. 

“If this is revenge, then surely the person behind it all would want to kill you himself? Something is wrong.” Sherlock released me and closed his eyes.   
“Sherlock, tell me what the hell is going on! What do you mean revenge? And why would the government concern themselves with this case? How did you know I was going to get killed? Why this man? Who is he?”   
Sherlock ignored me and rose gracefully to his feet. “These questions are irrelevant. I will explain everything to you in good time, John. But for now, I must go. Try to sleep or eat or whatever it is invalids do in hospitals.”   
I knew not to bother saying a word more, as the man pulled on his coat and scarf and left the room quietly. After sipping the water conveniently left by my bedside, I closed my eyes in the hopes that sleep would offer me relief from my confused state. It did not, at least not until I could hear birds singing outside and a glimpse of early morning light began to seep into the room.


	11. Back To Baker Street

### Back To Baker Street (John's Perspective)

As I sat propped up against the pillows in my hospital bed, I wondered if and when Sherlock was going to return. Despite being furious with the man for what he did, I still anticipated his reappearance. I was to be discharged from the hospital this afternoon and a doctor was doing one last check-up of my vitals. She gently removed the needles from my skin and cleaned the blood from the small wounds with cotton wool whilst I stared blankly at the open door opposite.   
“Is somebody coming to pick you up?” she asked politely, noticing my anxious staring.   
“Oh, I’m not sure. Maybe,” I responded, turning to face the doctor with a smile.   
“The weather really is quite lovely this afternoon,” she continued, motioning towards the small window in the ward. Before I had a chance to reply, a familiar voice interrupted.   
“We’re doing small talk about the weather now, are we? How tedious,” Sherlock sighed unenthusiastically. The doctor muttered about getting my clothes before hurrying awkwardly out of the room. 

My eyes flickered to the tall man leaning impassively against the doorframe. His cool eyes seemed brighter than usual, but there were dark circles underlining them, like abhorrent shadows. He was wearing his long coat and low and behold, had turned the collar up in his usual manner.   
“Why are you staring at me like that? Was that… rude of me?” Sherlock questioned, his eyes meeting mine steadily.   
“Yeah, a bit,” I replied. “What are you doing here?”   
“Well, I thought it ill-mannered of me not to take you home. Besides, I need to bring you up to date on the case at hand-”   
“Do you know who did it?” I questioned earnestly. I was desperately hoping that he might, however the detective shook his head solemnly before stepping aside to let the doctor re-enter the room with my clothes. 

Neither of us mentioned the case as we found a bathroom for me to change in and filled out medical forms at the cluttered reception desk. In fact, we barely spoke at all until we left the hospital entirely. I turned my face up to greet the warm sunlight blissfully. The hazy, silver sky was scattered with cotton clouds that danced through the air in slow pirouettes. It was difficult to believe it was Winter when the weather was so warm. I relished the turn of events, since it had been bitterly cold this month. My absorption in the climate meant that I did not notice Sherlock hailing a cab, nor did I realise when he held the taxi’s door open for me expectantly.   
“John,” he coughed impatiently, shaking me from my daze. Crimson flooded my cheeks and I clambered clumsily onto the back seat. Sherlock followed suit and sat beside me.   
“Baker Street, please” Sherlock instructed placidly, not paying attention to the confusion that seeped across my face.   
“I thought you said you were taking me home?” I fretted, glancing at Sherlock.   
“I am,” he responded simply. I cursed under my breath; this man is impossible.   


“Sherlock, you do know that I have my own flat, right?”   
“Yes. I also know you have a job at Whittington Hospital. But you have a week of paid sick leave ahead of you.”   
“In that case, why did you call Baker Street my home?”   
“Well, it’s hardly wise for you to be alone when there’s a murderer that wants you dead,” Sherlock retorted. “Besides, with you staying in 221B we can properly address the case. I will need your help.”   
“You’ll need my help?” I echoed with bewilderment. Sherlock rarely expressed his need for anyone on a case.   
“Yes, now stop repeating everything I say like a toddler. We have a lot of work to do.”   
I sighed, knowing Sherlock’s amiability could not last.   


Usually, we travelled together in silence, but it seemed that Sherlock actually wanted a conversation today. After a moment of peace, he continued speaking to me on the matter of my living arrangements.   
“John,” Sherlock began in a stilted tone. I dragged my eyes away from the window and instead faced the detective, who was studying me with great intensity. “Mm?”   
“I’m back now. I’m staying in London for the foreseeable future. So…” the man paused, as though deliberating over his next words. “You can move back into Baker Street with me. Things can go back to how they were previously.”   
I shook my head indignantly and my expression turned bitter.   
“No they can’t, Sherlock.”   
“You’ve missed this - the danger, the rush. You know I’m right!” he continued hastily, leaning towards me. His eyes bore into mine, half pleading and half analytical. On one hand, there was nothing I wanted more than to be able to return to before. But I couldn’t. My miracle came too late and now I’m not sure I can face it. 

“John, I understand that you’re angry with me but-”   
“No!” I exploded, feeling unadulterated rage burn within my core. “You don’t understand, Sherlock! Things can’t go back to before because you let me grieve for months! I- I wanted you to be alive. You could have told me, you could have done anything to make it better! But you didn’t. That’s not okay, and it’s difficult to forgive.”   
Sherlock opened his mouth as though to speak and I braced myself for one of his caustic comments. But instead, he did not say a word. His pained eyes searched mine, before he swayed even closer towards me.   
“I’m sorry,” he stated quietly. I felt his soft breath wash over me as the words took their hold in my heart. I considered replying with something equally heartfelt, but instead replied with a dispirited joke.   
“That’s a first.”   
Sherlock smiled a little and sat upright. His eyes followed the passing traffic outside, whilst mine traced every line of his sculpted face. How could I ever turn down Sherlock Holmes? 

The journey to Baker Street went all too quickly; I soon found myself staring at the front door I used to call my own. Sherlock strode past me and walked straight in. Of course he didn't find any of this at all emotional. With a deep inhalation, I held my breath and crossed the threshold. Light glinted off the staircase's railing in such a way I swore I could see spectres of our past selves running our hands along it. My eyes swept across the wall to my left and I almost saw myself and Sherlock laughing against it. I suppose 221B is a mind palace of sorts - with memories littered in each cluttered corner in such a way they become unforgettable. My legs shifted of their own accord, until I found myself leaning against the wall where Sherlock once rested his head near mine all those years ago. The warmth of sunlight seeped from the wallpaper into my scalp and I could almost imagine it being Sherlock's body heat. After a moment of relaxing in my treasured memory, I began to climb the creaking steps towards the flat itself. My shaking hand grasped the smooth door handle firmly and twisted it. The door swung open and I gorged myself on the memories that sprung from within. 

As my eyes chaotically crossed and re-crossed the room, I remembered almost every event I shared with Sherlock in this flat. Surprisingly, all of Sherlock's things were here. He must have already returned and salvaged whatever Mrs Hudson was too sentimental to throw away (which appeared to be almost everything). The last time I came to 221B was torture for that exact reason, but now I found closure in it. After all, Sherlock isn't really dead. I touched my fingers to the soft material of my chair and smiled weakly, before collapsing onto it. No chair ever really felt the same as this one. I felt at home for the first time since Sherlock had left. 

As means of interrupting my sentimental return, Sherlock burst into the room, shouting loudly about tea as poor Mrs Hudson bustled in after him. "John, dear!" she beamed, hurrying to my side and running her cool hand over mine. I reciprocated with a sweet smile and stood up to shake her hand. Much to my surprise, she pushed my outstretched hand aside with a laugh and pulled me into a gentle hug instead. I heard Sherlock scoff from the kitchen, but tactfully ignored it. Mrs Hudson smelt of cake batter and perfume, just how hugs with my mum used to smell when I was a young boy. I sank into the comforting feeling, resting my chin on her shoulder. For a moment I felt entirely dependent and lost, before my broken barrier reinstated itself. Then, I inhaled sharply and straightened my spine in a military pose. Despite the distinct sensation of Sherlock's eyes on me, I refused to face him. I did not want him to notice my faltering strength - especially when he already thinks he has a hold over me on the whole moving in situation. As though aware of and put out by my decision, Sherlock hopped across my chair defiantly, complaining to Mrs Hudson about the distinct lack of tea in the room and nudging her gently away so he could stand before me. He reminded me of a child who has a friend round for dinner and wants their family to leave them alone. Of course, Sherlock probably never had play dates as a boy due to his overbearing demeanour. Who knows what goes on in his mind, but he certainly enjoyed being the centre of attention. I allowed my eyes to catch his, finding myself lost in the vortex of blues and greens. Sherlock murmured something under his breath, something I did not process. Then the man shook his head and motioned behind me. "You should take a seat." 

"Why?" I responded curiously as I settled into my chair. Sherlock did not reply and instead focused his attention on sitting in his own chair. He curled his feet up on either side of his seat, long legs framing his taut jaw like iron bars.   
"Let's talk about the case," he suggested, not that I had much of a choice. "First of all, Mycroft has been monitoring the situation for six months and has only now decided to get myself involved, following news of your imminent danger. There have been three murders prior to your attempted one. They were technically marked as natural causes, but we believe them to have been performed under similar circumstances to yours - poison. It seems they were systematic removals in order to get my brother's attention but not that of the police force."   
"Oh my God," I whispered steadily. "All those people died just so the killer could get your attention? And I'm what, the only victim they want? Those people died because of me." I felt nauseous, so leant against the armrest uneasily.   
"You feel guilty?" Sherlock questioned, looking upon my still form with a blank expression. I nodded, worried that if I spoke the tightening of my throat would take effect on my voice.   
"You shouldn't, John. The murderer is, after all, most likely targeting you to get to me. The most interesting part of this case is that members of Moriarty's old criminal web have been acting suspiciously. They were scattered, but they have now regrouped and even under duress swear they currently work for Moriarty. They were the ones who told us how you are going to be murdered next. Mycroft stupidly believes this to be the Moriarty despite the fact he clearly blew his brains out right before my eyes. The important question is who is this supposed 'Moriarty'?" 

"Their motive is revenge? So it must be someone who was close to Jim Moriarty prior to his death. Does he have any family? Any close friends?"   
"He was orphaned as a toddler and put up for adoption, where he spent his childhood moving from foster home to foster home - I doubt any of those relations remained close. He is not in the habit of keeping friends any more than I am, after all he is a consulting criminal."   
"And yet the consulting detective does have friends. Perhaps somebody cares more for him than he did for them," I countered bitterly.   
"John, you misunderstand me. Of course I am not denying our friendship, or that I am somewhat friendly with several others. But Moriarty was a psychopath and a murderer - do you really think someone would care for his death so much so that they sought violent revenge more than a year later?"   
I sighed, getting nowhere with my point.   
"No. You're right as always, Sherlock. But maybe it is Moriarty? The real one. He wouldn't be the first to fake his death."   
Sherlock looked as exasperated as someone trying to explain quantum physics to a four year old. I suppose compared to his intellect the situation must seem similar.   
"I really don't think Moriarty would exact revenge when it was he who chose to make me fake my death and he who was willing to take the game so far he shot himself in the brain. Also, there was no logical way he could survive his predicament, trust me. This is most likely the work of some desperate fan of his - I assume he has some." 

"Is that all, then? Do I know all of the known information?"   
"Yes, I believe so."   
"In which case, I'm going home," I told Sherlock, rising fluidly from my seat. Sherlock also rose from his seat with an anguished expression.   
"But-"   
"Sherlock, I'm wearing the same clothes I left my flat in the other day! I need to shower and change! You can't keep me here against my will-" I paused and turned to stare angrily at the detective. "-Don't even think about it!"   
"But John, this murderer will stop at nothing to kill you. It is not safe for you to be alone all the time. Besides, some of my homeless network are already bringing your belongings here."   
"Oh great, so a bunch of random tramps are going to be handling my stuff?" I shouted, approaching Sherlock in what I hoped to be a menacing manner. He did not respond outwardly to my proximity, unaffected by my attempt to intimidate him.   
"They are trustworthy, fast and they won't steal any of your things. I even ensured they wash their hands before touching anything. You really are overreacting to all of this! I am asking for you to stay here for a week at most while I solve this case, not steal the crown jewels!"   
"Me overreact? You just expect me to stay here after you faked your death for eighteen months and I'm the one overreacting?"   
"Yes," Sherlock responded curtly. He stalked into the kitchen and began rummaging through the fridge, most likely searching for body parts to experiment on. I yelled something unintelligible and kicked the skirting board frustratedly before pacing the flat. Rage surrounded my whole being and every little noise made me want to punch Sherlock in the gut. I couldn't believe he had the audacity to assume I would gladly move back in. Actually, I could believe it because Sherlock has always been an arsehole. Once anger had siphoned all my energy, I skulked upstairs to my bedroom to wait for my belongings to be delivered. After all, there was little I could do to convince the stubborn man downstairs to let me leave and despite myself he really was right.


	12. It Can't Be Like Before

### It Can't Be Like Before (Sherlock's Perspective)

My nimble hands wielded the small scalpel with surgical precision as I sliced the lingual artery in a severed tongue. The limp muscle was cold and dry - I really did need to get some fresher specimens. I recorded the volume of blood that spurted from the incision with a pondering expression, before placing the tongue in a plastic tub and sealing the lid. I then selected another tongue and repeated the process, however this time I severed the lingual vein. It was rather difficult to conduct experiments, what with a rampant flatmate insistent on kicking the wall at an alarming rate. Nevertheless I continued because the tongues currently provided better company than John. I could not for the life of me understand why he was so angry. Even for someone with a naturally short fuse, this was excessive. I came back, didn't I? Shouldn't he be happy I'm not dead? Besides, I am only insisting he stays due to the danger he is in. Although I am seventy eight percent certain the murderer won't strike without my presence, I cannot calculate a more accurate percentage until I solve some more of the case. So as a precaution, John stays here with me. Which would be fine, if he wasn't overreacting so much. 

I did not have to turn around to realise John had moved across the front room. His heavy footsteps and the familiar sound of the flat shifting around his path was as clear to me as a GPS tracker. I loosened my leg muscles swiftly; there was a chance he could be moving into the hallway to go outside and I had to be prepared to intervene. I knew and accepted that any intervention on my part would end in injury - most likely a split lip or a cut cheek. As stealthily as I could manage, I tiptoed towards the kitchen doorway and made my way towards the landing. No telltale creak of the second step on the staircase. John wasn't leaving. The exact distribution of creaking I did hear told me that John headed upstairs for his bedroom and, like a sulking teenager, he slammed his door violently. A dramatic sigh flittered from my parted lips and I returned to the tongues, deciding they were most definitely better company. 

Not ten minutes after I had began systematically slicing a tongue into small chunks out of boredom did Mrs Hudson hurry into the kitchen, followed by two young men each carrying several large cardboard boxes.  
"Sherlock, look at all of this mess!" She scolded, eliciting an eye roll from my tired body. I suppose the kitchen was a little worse for wear. I had set up my equipment on the central table and there were some tongues littered across the wooden surface. There was a clear layer of dust resting on the untouched cabinets, for I had not disturbed them since returning. I had to admit the bloody fingerprints on the fridge were also my doing, as were the splattering of utensils on the draining board. Regardless, the state of the kitchen was not my biggest concern at present.  
"For someone who swears she is not my housekeeper, you certainly complain a lot about the flat's cleanliness," I hissed scathingly, snatching the boxes from the dedicated members of my homeless network and dumping them unceremoniously on the floor in front of the coffee table.  
"I should think that anybody would be concerned with this mess, dear!" She fretted, glancing worriedly at the disfigured tongues. I discreetly thanked and paid the two men, before ushering them from the flat hurriedly. All the while, Mrs Hudson was gabbling on about something - I shut most of it out whilst frowning. Only did I begin to listen when I heard her mention John. I hoped she could give me some advice on how to stop him from being so furious. 

"I heard you two fighting," she said curiously, expecting some sort of explanation.  
"He's angry because he's going to get murdered if he doesn't stay with me. But he doesn't want me to be alive and he really does not want to move back in."  
"He's overjoyed that you aren't dead, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said gently. "But have you looked at him properly since you've returned?"  
"Of course I've looked at him! What on earth are you going on about?" I retorted. Why does everyone talk such nonsense?  
"I mean have you really looked at him and noticed how much worse he is now than last year?"  
I thought for a moment. I had not properly taken in his current weight or gait.  
"I doubt he wants to see me at all," I moaned, pacing across the room.  
"Well, I've made you both tea, so why don't you take it to him and let him know his things are here?" Mrs Hudson suggested, passing me one of the two teacups that had somehow appeared on the table. I nodded and carried the hot drink carefully upstairs.  


My knuckles drifted silently over the large door, before I clenched my fist and firmly knocked on the wood three times. Inside I heard movement and the door opened to reveal a dishevelled John in the door frame. My eyes roamed his body in shock, as I suddenly realised just how much damage I had done to him. His rigid military pose was a stark contrast to his stiff leg, but he did not use a crutch either. So it was a burden he chose to live with, probably knowing it is psychosomatic. His eyes and hair looked duller; he had a vitamin deficiency. He had lost fifteen pounds and as a result his facial structure looked hollowed and somehow more tired. Dark circles ringed his eyes, so he had not been sleeping well - nightmares. When he raised his left hand to scratch his head, I saw it was shaking. "Are you just going to stare at me or did you actually want something?" John snapped, straightening his spine. I'd forgotten how guarded the man could be when on edge.  
"Oh I- I've brought you tea." I showed him the full tea cup as proof, and for a second his eyes looked a little brighter.  
"Did you make this for me?" He asked, looking bewildered. I contemplated telling the truth but, in an attempt to make John forgive me, I said yes. An almost undetectable smile lit up his face and I grinned. He took the cup from my hand carefully and raised the rim to his lips so he could drink some.  


"Yeah, it's good," John complimented, his eyes seeming to beam at me. After a long pause, John smirked. “Mrs Hudson made it, didn’t she?”  
“I… er. Yes. Sorry. I forget you’re not a complete idiot sometimes.”  
John laughed, shaking his head, then took another sip. If he was mad earlier, you wouldn't be able to tell now. We stood in companionable silence for a while, before John cleared his throat awkwardly.  
"Anything else you wanted?"  
"Oh! Yes, your belongings are downstairs, so you can shower and change now," after a short pause, I decided to add on the question that had been playing on my mind throughout the whole encounter. "And would you like to go out for dinner tonight? With me? Because there is no food in the kitchen, just tongues and milk." I could feel the words racing from my mouth and I did not know why. All I knew is that if John is not eating properly, I have to interfere. After all, he needs plenty of energy to avoid his untimely death. John drew in a sharp breath before speaking.  
"Maybe, I'll see if I'm hungry. I ate quite a bit at the hospital so-"  
"Lie," I disputed as I turned to leave. John opened his mouth as though to defend himself, but wisely decided against it. I heard his bedroom door's latch click as he followed behind me. 

"I'm not going to get stabbed in the shower am I? Like in Psycho? I don't really want my corpse to be naked," John said, closing the gap between us. I must admit, initially I thought he was genuinely concerned about a shower murder. I did not recognise the film reference and so by extension did not understand the joke.  
"The bathroom window is far too small for an adult to climb through and I would notice if a murderer was breaking down the door. Also all corpses are naked for the post-mortem procedure. Death knows no dignity," I responded seriously. John laughed and patted me on the shoulder as he passed me.  
"Psycho is a film, Sherlock. A horror film? The woman gets stabbed whilst having a shower?"  
I stared at him vacantly. "I do not watch films, John."  
"Shall I add it to the list?" John smirked. He insisted upon keeping a list of 'must-sees' - films such as James Bond and Jaws, so if there was a lull between cases he could watch me watching dull, poorly plotted rubbish.  
"I don't think there is a list anymore. How disappointing," I said in mock despair. "Besides, I thought you weren't staying?"  
"Well, until this case has blown over, I don't really have much of a choice. Besides, you haven't watched the latest James Bond film yet and are in urgent need of educating."  
"Yes, excuse me whilst I destroy our television," I informed him with an undertone of scorn. John simply chuckled and started rummaging through his stuff in search of clothes. Perhaps he had exhausted all his anger, but I was immensely confused as to why John was suddenly being amiable with me. It was almost as though he had forgiven me, which felt unpleasantly improbable. I glanced at him frequently, expecting him to suddenly turn on me. He did not. Instead he knelt on the floor, contemplating which jumper to wear as though it was the most important decision of his life. The sight of it got boring, so I retreated to the kitchen to salvage what I could from my experiment with the wizened tongues. 

When I returned to the front room, I could hear the shower running in the bathroom. One of the boxes was overturned and some of his clothes had fallen aside, revealing the corner of what looked to be a black journal. Why would John have a journal when anything he writes goes on his blog? I wondered. He had no reason to write in a journal unless the contents were private - something he didn't want online. Perhaps a diary. Intrigue pulled me towards the leather-bound book and I fell prey to temptation. I allowed my fingers to slowly pull the journal out, all the while listening carefully for any sign that John may be finished. With the prize in tow, I hastily sat in my chair and opened the first page. Fortunately for me, John had outlined what this diary covered on the very first page. 'Ella told me to keep a dream journal, so here it is. She says it will help me discover what haunts my dreams, but I already know it's HIM. At least in my dreams he is there; in real life there is nothing.' 

A dream journal? I snorted, trying to suppress my laughter. What does he want with a dream journal? That will only make his nightmares more persistent. Then I began to wonder what could possibly cause John Watson to have nightmares. I suspected it would be related his time in Afghanistan, but I was so very wrong. Turning the page revealed entry after entry of moments from our time together. Sometimes they weren't at all scary, other times they were from my fake suicide. I ran my hand down the page in disbelief, feeling almost guilty. I had done this to him. I'm supposed to be his friend. Had the plan not been so fragile, I would have told him. I couldn't though, because his grief had to look genuine. I read snippets of paragraphs, rapidly turning pages. There were so many entries. I couldn't help but imagine John waking up most nights, trembling as he stumbled out of bed and scribbled down every painstaking detail of his nightmare. There was a lengthy entry near the end of the journal, about my fall. I had never considered how John must have felt during that time, so began to read his familiar scrawl in its entirety. Certain phrases stood out like a sore thumb and I pored over them hungrily. 

_'As he told me that he made Moriarty and everything to do with his extraordinary mind up, I knew it wasn’t true. I wanted to tell him to stop being an idiot and come down. I wanted to give him a hug. God, every time I heard the quiver in his voice I felt pure unadulterated fear because Sherlock Holmes seldom gets so upset. His coat billowed in the wind like a cloak. I half hoped it would act like a parachute if he jumped - I would believe any childish nonsense just to deny the fact that this could be my last conversation with him.' ___

_'I didn’t want him to leave me and especially not in this way. But he asked me to stay and I had to listen. He was in an unstable state. Finally, he said goodbye. Those words rang in my ears, rendered me incapable of thinking straight. I yelled no, I called his name but he wouldn’t respond. I had one last chance to say what I always wanted to say. But I didn’t, I missed my one chance. Sherlock threw his phone down and jumped.' ___

I felt as though I had just uncovered a side of John I didn't know existed. Never had he poured so much raw emotion into his writing and of course the man was never openly emotional to me. Curiosity burned within me as I considered what exactly he always wanted to tell me and why he never did. However, just as I carefully turned the page in search of answers, I became painfully aware of the silent flat, meaning John was no longer showering. Hastily, I clapped the journal shut between my fingers. I heard the grating sound of the bathroom lock sliding aside at the same moment I raced across the room and returned the journal to its original position. I barely managed to collapse into my chair as John emerged from the hallway, drying his hair with one of my towels. A scowl tugged at my brow, whilst a frown appeared on John's as he glanced between my mildly breathless figure and his belongings.  
"Were you rummaging through my things?" John asked sternly, stepping in front of me and scrutinising my expression. I waited briefly, so as not to reply too quickly, then said 'no' in a calm tone. John stared at me for a while longer, as if he was waiting for any evidence of me lying, then turned away with a small 'hmph'.  
"Speaking of deceit, why are you using my towel?" I cried, rising to my feet and motioning towards the offending material.  
"Well your brilliant tramps failed to bring any of mine!" John accused haughtily. "Don't worry, I tried my best not to mess up your colour coordination."  
"They're not organised by colour, they are organised by density and I was planning to use that towel next!" I complained venomously. John didn't seem able to grasp the concept of indexing certain things to make them easier to find.  
"Well here you go," John joked, tossing the damp towel at my head. I pulled it off angrily, glowering at John's smirk.  
"Oh and you may have some rearranging to do. They fell on me when I tried pulling one from that bloody high shelf and I put them back in colour order," John added, grinning bemusedly. I hoped silence served as a suitable punishment as I stormed out of the room to reorganise my towels. I heard John chuckle before calling after me: "I bet you wish I had been murdered!" As untrue as that statement is, I could not help but wonder if John was actually exacting revenge. With a pout I emptied the shelf of towels and began refolding them sulkily.


	13. Dinner Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Uploading another two chapters tonight, I hope you enjoy reading them! Please let me know what you thought in the comments if you have the time, I'd like to know what you all think of this story so far :)_

### Dinner Date (John's Perspective)

It felt like an age had passed since the last time I had shared a meal with Sherlock. Yet, as we stood outside Angelo's on the night-stricken pavement, I remembered each one as vividly as though they happened yesterday. My eyes skimmed across the large glass window at the front of the restaurant, fixating upon the small table behind it. It was the same place Sherlock and I had sat during our first case together and it was illuminated with a spotlight of warm, golden light. I then looked across to my reflection in the thick glass, following the tight lines in my face. My eyes had no shimmer; my mouth had no smile. The coat I was wearing was too big, and hung loosely around my torso like a shapeless bag. When Sherlock appeared behind me like a spectre, my own reflection seemed to fade in its glory. His coat's collar accentuated his distinct cheekbones and steel-blue eyes. Beneath his coat was a well-tailored suit that exhibited his thin, muscular body. Through the reflection, our eyes connected - tired blue meeting piercing grey. I forced my mouth up into a small smile, but it did not look right; my lips were spread too thin and my cheeks pushed too far aside. Sherlock cocked his head a few centimetres to the left, before breaking eye contact with me and entering Angelo's. _In what world would I ever be worth as much as Sherlock Holmes?_ I thought disdainfully. 

Angelo was part shocked, part ecstatic to see Sherlock. He clapped the detective on the back roughly, which Sherlock winced at, then began rabbiting on whilst Sherlock smiled politely and motioned for me to sit by the window. I complied and he followed, removing his coat at the same time. My jacket easily slipped off of my shoulders, and I placed it on the seat beside me. Then I sat quietly whilst Angelo asked about Sherlock's suicide, to which Sherlock gladly explained every detail of how he survived. I think he was excited that someone cared how he did it. I personally did not care in the slightest how someone can jump off a roof and live, more how someone can jump off a roof and let their friends believe them to be dead for over a year. But that was a question Sherlock did not understand.  
"Sorry for intruding on your date," Angelo continued, turning to me. "I just never thought I'd see Sherlock Holmes again! What can I get you two? Drinks? Everything's on the house!" 

Sherlock did not respond to Angelo's use of the word 'date', so I did.  
"We're actually not together," I said, motioning between myself and the ethereal man opposite. As everyone always does when faced with the prospect that I might not be gay, Angelo stared momentarily in disbelief, before grinning. It was evident he did not believe me.  
"I'll have a glass of water, please," Sherlock ordered, breaking the tension as though he never noticed its presence. "John?"  
"I'll have a pint of Guinness, please."  
Angelo smiled, "Coming right up!"  
But before the man could leave, Sherlock pulled him closer and muttered something in his ear. Angelo's eyes opened in grim surprise and he nodded gravely. Sherlock pulled away, shifting his concentration to me as Angelo headed for the bar.  
"What did you just say to him?" I asked curiously, leaning forward. Sherlock also leaned towards me and replied in a hushed tone.  
"I was requesting he ensures nobody has access to your food and drink except himself. We can't trust everyone and must assume that anybody could be in on the plot."  
I nodded. Sherlock had raised a valid point. I wasn't sure why I found it surprising that Sherlock was being so protective and careful when it was obvious he did not want me to die. I just didn't expect him to ever take interest in keeping someone alive. It wasn't in his nature and it wasn't a requirement of his work. And yet by solving cases is he not putting dangerous people in prison and therefore protecting the public? Of course that couldn't be the reason he chose to be a consulting detective, because if someone dies he is simply indifferent. 

"Why does it continue to perplex you that I am trying to prevent your murder?" Sherlock inquired, resting his chin on his hand and furrowing his brow. I wasn't taken aback by his deduction, I was mostly used to them (besides the odd unexpected one, when he goes too far).  
"Because you don't usually go into a case with the intention of saving a life."  
"This isn't an ordinary case."  
"No, you're right. It isn't," I muttered. I leant back in my chair and picked up the menu from the table half heartedly. Constant glances at Sherlock confirmed he was not looking at a menu, but at me instead. He stared intensely without embarrassment, as though I was the most interesting person in the world and it made me feel just a bit special. Nobody ever looked at me the way Sherlock did and I was sure he never gave anyone else that same lengthy gaze.  
"You should probably eat, you know," I advised. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped the glass of water Angelo had laid onto our table. "I'm being serious, Sherlock! When did you last eat?" "Oh, I don't know." He grimaced and flapped his hand as if my words were a fly to swot. "It's all just tr-"  
"Transport, yes I know. But it keeps you alive."  
Sherlock shrugged and smirked at me. "I don't see any murderers not killing someone because they're well nourished. I have, on the other hand, seen murderers get the upper hand on victims who had recently eaten a lot and consequently got a stitch whilst running away."  
"Smart-arse," I interjected, motioning for Angelo to come over so I could order. 

"You never eat when we go out for dinner," I mused, pointing to the man with my drink in hand.  
"We always go out during cases."  
"Why? Why do you bother coming if you never eat?"  
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock said in a soft, deep tone. For once he said that phrase without being condescending.  
"No, not to me."  
"You're my friend. When I first met you, you barely ate, so I ensured you ate regular meals. In my absence you have slipped - you have lost fifteen pounds. Therefore, I am inclined to break that habit and make sure you eat proper meals again."  
"That's er- That's... thank you," I stammered, barely able to believe what I had just heard. Sherlock made no comment on my thanks, but why would he? He never does things to be nice or for recognition, he just does whatever takes his fancy. I expect him ensuring I eat is more so I do not collapse on a case than because he cares about my physical health, but it was sweet all the same. 

In truth, it was I who should have been concerned about Sherlock's health. He quivered every time someone entered or left the restaurant and monitored their every move for several minutes before calming down. I had witnessed him systematically deduce every single person nearby. When the man did face me, there was inexplicable anguish trapped in his eyes. His shoulders were raised and tense; he kept bouncing his knee and tapping his fingers. Yes, he did that usually, but never with such paranoia and torment. I felt pained because I had no idea how to comfort Sherlock Holmes of all people. 

"Sherlock," I broke in steadily.  
"Hmm?" He responded, jolting up.  
"You don't need to worry so much. Chances are if I'm not dead yet, I'm safe for tonight. I highly doubt any killer would be stupid enough to strike now, in the middle of a restaurant."  
"I'm not worried, I'm fine," he breathed, his words tumbling out too fast for me to believe them.  
"Right, well you aren't acting fine."  
"I'm observing everyone. I'm on edge because I am keeping you alive. Is that not what you want?"  
"I want you to eat something, get a good night's sleep and we can tackle the case tomorrow. Maybe go to the morgue and take a look at the other bodies?"  
"They were marked natural causes. All but one have already been cremated or buried."  
"So we can look at that one. Maybe they had natural cuts like mine - for the poison to enter" I held up my sliced palm. It had scabbed over and was beginning to look sufficiently unpleasant. But I had seen worse. Sherlock paused for a moment, before nodding.  
"I'm not eating here though. And I need to go shopping tomorrow." 

"You need to go shopping?"  
"Yes. We need bread and butter and whatever else you want to eat this week."  
"You're going to do that?" I laughed.  
"I have shopped before, John," Sherlock snapped. He wasn't really angry, though. I could see minute hints of bemusement in his expression.  
"You ought to come too - we should stick together," Sherlock suggested wisely. I agreed to his proposal and Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a tiny smile. The man gradually stopped bouncing his knee so much and we made general conversation whilst I ate. I successfully managed to keep the topic away from the case and Sherlock, for the most part, allowed me to. It was late when we returned to the flat and even later once I had retired to bed. Sherlock didn't go to bed when I did, despite my asking him to get plenty of sleep. 

The air in my bedroom was stiff and cold. Every movement I made cracked through the icy atmosphere, only to freeze again. My toes wriggled in the duvet as I rolled onto my side in an attempt to get comfortable. I had carried all of my boxes up into my room, so they took up half of the floor space. Yet I couldn't help but consider the fact that most of my belongings fit into half a dozen cardboard boxes. It was clear all the memories and good times were attached to Sherlock, opposed to my own things. I never realised how dull my life was until I met Sherlock. Living without him was hell - and not just because of the grief. It was boring. Nevertheless, I intended to move out again as soon as possible. It would be so difficult living with the knowledge that Sherlock was alive and well and solving crimes without me. But how else can I make him realise the gravity of the damage he's done to me? I wasn't sure he would ever realise, in all honesty. All I knew was that I couldn't give in to his charming demeanor and do exactly what he wanted. That would just condition him like a spoilt child, and that man was already spoilt enough. 

Downstairs, I could hear Sherlock rummaging through paper. It didn't sound like he was going to sleep any time soon. I sighed with exasperation, then shivered as I noted just how cold my breath was. My bedroom was always colder and darker than the rest of the flat, like a separate entity. Maybe that was due to its distinct lack of a consulting detective tearing it up. The more logical explanation was that the radiator broke two years ago and we never got round to fixing it. Regardless, I shivered morosely and rolled onto my back. It took me a while to fall asleep. I eventually drifted off to the sound of Sherlock playing his violin quietly below. 

_Hard pavement beneath my back was the only thing grounding me. I blinked repeatedly, trying to get my bearings. The sky above me was obscured by clouds, which swirled into an ashen concoction of greys and blacks. My breath hitched in my throat, which was when it dawned upon me that I couldn't breathe. Panic began to set in and all sense of numbness washed away, leaving burning pain in its cool wake. It felt as though someone had their fist around my heart and they were twisting and clenching it violently. When I tried to raise my head to see if that was indeed the case, it was too heavy to lift further than a centimetre or two. It fell heavily to the floor again and the impact reverberated through my skull. Just when I decided I would rather be dead than suffer through this torture, I heard Sherlock's voice. He was yelling my name huskily and it pulled me back to reality. His face came into view above me. His soft curls bounced around his sharp face in a dark halo. The evident concern on his face made me feel loved and wanted. I struggled to keep my eyes open, even though I could feel my limbs shutting down. Sherlock was saying something, but I could not distinguish between words. Then he leant towards me, his eyes trained on my lips. He wasn't... He wouldn't... His lips pressed against mine hard and I gasped in disbelief. Sherlock's hot mouth was on mine and suddenly I was breathing again. Oxygen rushed through my blood and I felt alive. Granted, Sherlock wasn't particularly amazing at kissing and I couldn't move my lips at all. Every time he breathed against me it felt like lightning through my body, like a defibrillator shocking my heart back to life. He tasted strange and exciting. I wished I could raise my hand to his hair and pull him closer; I wanted to know what his curls felt like entwined with my fingers. But all too soon he reeled away. Everything within me stopped, as though a power cut had struck it. My eyes couldn't stay open any longer, so I let them drift shut._

My lungs sucked in a huge breathful of oxygen and I bolted upright. Sweat droplets ran down my temples and my throat was painfully dry. My chest rose and fell swiftly as my whole frame shook violently. It was just a dream, just a stupid dream. As if Sherlock would ever kiss me! There was no clock in the room, but my phone’s display read "06:37" in bold. With a groan, I swung my feet onto the floor and padded downstairs quietly. The curtains were shut in the front room and the desktop lamp still beaming brightly. I switched it off, glancing around for Sherlock. I began to think maybe he did go to bed, when I suddenly noticed a long figure draped across the sofa. He was wearing pyjamas and his blue dressing gown and was fast asleep. I rarely saw Sherlock asleep, since he usually made it to his bedroom. The detective still had a marker pen in his hand and papers strewn across the floor where his draped hand had dropped them. His face was blank of expression, seeming soft and childlike without those analytical eyes. I smiled fondly, before leaving the room to fetch his duvet. As gently as someone may touch a delicate snowflake, I lay the duvet across the man inch by inch until it reached his chin. He immediately grabbed it and curled his feet up, twisting the material into knots. With a lingering smile, I took a recent newspaper from the dining table and sat in my armchair to read it.


	14. Shot In The Heart

### Shot In The Heart (Sherlock's Perspective)

_From the very moment I woke up, I felt a change come over me. My neck was sore and my eye sockets felt as though they were stuffed with wet sand rather than eyeballs. But that wasn't remarkable - I had slept on the sofa for six hours. What was truly remarkable was, as always, the fact that John Watson continued to show unrelenting kindness towards a man as disagreeable as myself. The moment I noticed that my duvet was covering my long frame I began to scour my mind for an explanation. Had I grabbed it before sleeping? No. Had Mrs Hudson put it there? No. The only possibility was that John came downstairs and saw me on the sofa. He did not wake me, nor did he try to get me to bed or just leave me be. For no reason other than loyal friendship he tried to make my sleep as comfortable as possible. Maybe it was because as a doctor he has an instinct to care for the vulnerable; maybe it was because that is just something normal people do. One thing and one thing only was certain: I did not understand why this small act of kindness had touched and confused me so much. I did not understand why John would bother protecting me from something as mundane as the icy clutch of the flat._

_The memory of awakening to the knowledge that someone really cares about your wellbeing is unforgettable. It is etched into my mind palace's walls, carved like an infatuated couple's love heart on a park bench. Then again, I may be overreacting, since John Watson is my friend and it was a duvet not an affectionate declaration. Although essentially any act of kindness is a declaration in itself. I take John to dinner, he covers me with a duvet. Five years ago I saw myself never having true friends. I saw myself standing at the back of an acquaintance's funeral whilst others were in tears wondering what all the fuss was about. That changed the minute John hobbled into my life and now I cannot comprehend the notion that he may die all too soon. The fragility of human life is reason enough not to have friends and yet here I am feeling passionate because John gave a tiny gesture of kindness - one I suspect he would have given anyone. The whole situation was utterly pointless and so painfully human I almost wished I could find a way to delete it. Almost. Somehow John Watson became the exception to my emotionless approach and I didn't even mind his intrusion some of the time._

"Sherlock!" John's voice cut through my train of thought like a blade. I sighed. _Most of the time_ , I repeated to myself.  
"Sherlock!" John shouted. He sounded angry and scolding. I suddenly became aware that the memories playing on my mind were just that - memories. It had happened four days ago and John and I were getting restless.   
"What do you want, John?" I yelled back, rolling onto my side on the sofa in order to face the kitchen. John was staring into the fridge vacantly, his eyes slowly searching.   
"Where did you put the jam?"   
We had both gone shopping two days ago, which was a mistake. John had treated me like a walking shopping list as I pushed the trolley along aisle after aisle. He was full of _'do we need apples?'_ and _'what do you want for dinner tomorrow night?'_ I eventually gave up and rushed around the shop as fast as possible, throwing anything we may need into the trolley.   
"Middle shelf," I called monotonously. Honestly, it was right in front of him.   
"There is no jam!" He whined, turning to glare expectantly at me as though I held all knowledge.   
"Oh for God's sake, John! It is right there!" I cried, pointing with my finger at the centre of the fridge.   
"That is not strawberry jam," he continued infuriatingly. "Look at it!" He opened the jar and tilted it towards me in shock. It looked fine to me.   
"It's that disgusting summer berries crap!" John insisted.   
"The difference in taste is almost indistinguishable," I stated matter-of-factly. I could not believe he was making a fuss over a jar of sugar and pulverised fruit. The berries used to make it doesn't change that.   
"If you hadn't stormed off in a strop, we could have got the food we both like!"   
"Oh? Then perhaps you should have made a shopping list instead of asking me!" I made my voice high-pitched and childlike in a poor imitation of John, "Sherlock, do we need rice? Sherlock do we need butter? Sherlock why am I too dim to write a list? Sherlock why do I inflict my nonsensical questions onto people who don't care?"   


John's mouth opened and shut loudly. I could see the rage behind his eyes, tearing at his skull to escape.   
"I thought a genius like you could memorise a few groceries!"   
"I don't hold on to unimportant information! Why would I fill my head with your shopping lists?"   
"Well if you had just let me do the shopping by myself like I usually do-"   
"What, so you could go and get yourself murdered?"   
"It has been nearly a week, Sherlock! Maybe they gave up?"   
I couldn't believe the stupidity that was drowning my ears. I rose lithely to my feet and stepped over all of the furniture between myself and John. I did not stop until I was about thirty centimetres away from him, my eyes calculating his in an attempt to find intelligence.   
"Why would a serial killer who seemed hell-bent on murdering you for the last few months suddenly decide that one failed attempt was enough to deter them? Really, John. I don't expect much intelligence from anyone but how could you miss something so obvious?"   
"Because only Sherlock Holmes could see the obvious. The rest of us are too bloody thick," John responded in a low tone. His voice ran through my body, making me squirm with discomfort. Him shouting at me would be preferable to this. I watched John's every move as he paced away, then altered his course to approach me again. The lines in his face had deepened; his brow creased into a funnel leading to his narrowed eyes. I often made John angry, but something was different this time. Not just anger, there was disappointment in his expression. I wasn't entirely sure what I had done besides call him an idiot (and he's certainly used to that). 

"You know," John spat, holding his phone up furiously. "I got a text from Mike Stamford earlier, asking if I wanted to go out for a drink. Initially I was going to say no since you have me under house arrest, but his offer is starting to sound very tempting."   
"John I-"   
"Shut up, Sherlock. You can’t control what I do."   
John turned curtly on his heels and left the room. I heard a waterfall of footsteps as he jogged down the stairs and realised that the man was actually planning on leaving. Panic took a hold of my heart, causing it to palpitate viciously. John was going to die. The very air around Baker Street stilled - it was fraught with danger. I had to stop him quickly before-   
I heard the latch twist on the front door and sprinted into the hallway, calling for John to stop. I skipped down the steps three at a time and almost crashed into my friend who was unmoving in the open doorway. That was when I noticed the blood seeping through his white cotton shirt and the person wielding a silenced pistol racing along the road. 

I stepped towards John slowly, my vision blurring at the edges. All I could think of was _John, John has been shot, John might die._ The same phrases kept repeating in my mind as they spun out of control. John made a spluttering noise and fell backwards into my chest. I nimbly caught him with shaking hands and lowered him gently to the ground. He had been shot through his right shoulder. My fingers skimmed blindly across the pavement until I felt warm metal and I raised it to the sky. The bullet was small and covered in blood. _John's blood._ I dropped it like burning coal and glanced across the road. The killer was wearing loose black clothing, leaving them completely anonymous as they scaled a railing between Baker Street and a dingy back alley. Like a rat, if they went into that alley they would be virtually untraceable. I could still catch them. However, when I moved to pursue them, John's hand caught my shirt sleeve. His eyes were pleading as he panted and quivered with unadulterated agony. I felt torn between my heart and my mind - one telling me to chase the murderer and the other commanding me to stay with my injured friend. The latter won, as I reluctantly decided I could not possibly catch up with them now. Instead I knelt and faced John, seeing him properly for the first time in this whole ordeal. 

It was indisputable that he was in extreme physical pain and evident he was mentally traumatised. His usually golden hair was dark and damp with sweat and sticking out in a crown of thorns. John Watson was not seeing me, or the sky. He was seeing the battlefield. I had no idea how to help. The bullet went straight through him; it would have shattered his collarbone and he may die from blood loss. "No, no no," I muttered frantically. "Don't do this to me, John. Don't die."   
As if I was the one in need of the most comforting here, John groaned and mustered his only strength to pat my shoulder. His fingers lingered there for a moment, grazing the erratic pulse in my neck before falling away. Scalding tears burned my lower eyelids as they threatened to overflow and I felt compelled to show John my sentiment by some strange instinct. I pulled his upper body into my arms with crimson hands and clutched him against my chest tightly. His hair tickled my chin and I watched his blood flow between my fingers. I had no idea what to do in this situation. John is the doctor, I am the consulting detective. As soon as I began cradling John in my arms, I felt a change come over my mind. Suddenly I felt as though I never wanted to let go. I did not understand why I found John’s pain so crippling, since everyone dies eventually. I did not understand my newfound dependency on John or the conflict between my heart and my mind. All I knew was that I couldn’t allow John to die. 

The shock had blocked my thoughts like fatty deposits in a vital artery. They struggled and writhed to break through and upon doing so, I realised my fatal mistake. I did not call an ambulance. I scrabbled anxiously for my phone with one hand whilst still cradling John with the other.   
"Stay with me, John," I demanded as I dialled 999. He grunted something incoherent and lolled his head back in a frighteningly corpse-like manner.   
"Ambulance," I choked, pinning my phone to my ear with unnecessary force.   
"Come to 221B Baker Street immediately. There has been a shooting and my friend has been wounded." I paused whilst the other person spoke calmly. "It's through his shoulder. He's the only casualty and he's bleeding out so hurry up." I rang off prematurely in order to give John my full attention.   
“John, tell me what to do,” I commanded, but the man was limp in my arms. He was barely conscious and certainly not able to give instructions. I laid him gently back on the pavement and pressed my fingertips into my temples in order to do what I do best - go to my mind palace. 

_I stood in the main hallway of my palace. The walls were cracked and peeling in places but I did not care. I needed medical procedures. I can’t have deleted everything I’ve seen John do these past few years. I felt a presence beside me and looked across sharply, expecting Mycroft. But it was John. He was in perfect health, wearing blue jeans and a brown cardigan over a plain shirt. I was relieved to see a John that wasn’t injured, but knew I could not stay to relish the moment. The real John was in danger and my only purpose here was to find out how to lessen the likelihood of him dying._   
_“John, how do I help someone who’s been shot in the shoulder?”_  
_“I have to examine the patient first.”_  
_“You’re a figment of my mind palace; you cannot examine anything!” I retorted angrily. At least I knew my memories of John Watson were authentic. Nevertheless, we were both promptly standing outside 221B staring at the wounded doctor at our feet. He was fast producing a pool of blood beneath him and his shirt’s front was splattered with hot red._  
_“The pain and blood loss will cause him to go into shock,” John pointed out, kneeling beside ‘his patient’. “So you need to keep him warm and calm.”_  
_I nodded, feeling tears stream down my cheeks. I had never seen John this gravely injured before and it was appalling._  
_“Then you need to put pressure on the wounds. Don’t stop putting pressure on them until the ambulance comes.”_   
_“I understand,” I confirmed, preparing myself to leave my mind palace. “One more thing, tell me. Are you going to… die?”_  
_John placed a hand on each of my shoulders, creating a safe barrier on either side of my body. I knew he was just a part of my mind palace, but it was intensely comforting regardless._  
“It’s just my shoulder. I’ve survived being shot there before and I can do it again.”   
_Then he was gone and I opened my eyes to the real world again._

“John, you are going to be fine,” I reassured the dazed man, pulling him up to prop against the wall. He was heavy and I struggled, but it took me no more than half a minute. I then quickly ran into the flat to retrieve my coat, covered him with it and pushed one hand against the open flesh on his back, disconcertedly observing my friend wince.   
“I have to,” I explained, even though John was well aware of what I had to do. I pushed my other palm against his front, feeling warm blood ooze against my skin. It was an unpleasant sensation, but I would withstand such a sensation for days if it meant that John Watson could be safe.   
“I’m going to catch the killer this time. We have the bullet and I’m sure there will be security footage. They won’t succeed,” I whispered to John. He probably wasn’t listening. I didn’t know which of us I was trying to soothe anymore. But John must have been at least partially focused, because he grunted before sluggishly raising his bloodied hand to cover mine. His half-closed, gentle eyes caught mine. They were more reassuring than anything I could have said or done and I reciprocated with a small smile. His gesture was compassionate and encouraging and I had never known such a pressure to be so powerful. I wasn’t sure whether I lost my balance in my cramped crouch or if my need for John’s strong comfort overpowered my senses, but for just a moment I rested my forehead against his. Dark curls tangled carelessly with blonde strands, before I jerked away. Now was not the time or place for me to become dependent on John’s ever present support. I could have sworn I saw perturbation in the man’s eyes for a brief second, but I could not be sure as sirens shattered my deductions like glass. Paramedics replaced my frankly pathetic attempts at medical care with real equipment and knowledge. All I could do was follow blindly behind them as they loaded my friend onto a stretcher and the stretcher into the ambulance, wondering where I had gone wrong for John to end up in the firing line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sorry for the cliffhanger!! Things will start to get happier soon, I promise. Sherlock and John need to face their feelings at some point, after all... ___


End file.
